Bearing Gifts
by bemj11
Summary: Set after Breaking the News. When an anonymous delivery is left Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, he quickly discovers that whoever was responsible sent it with sinister intent.
1. Beware

_"Beware of Greeks Bearing Gifts."_

* * *

><p>"You were in the paper."<p>

Lestrade chose to ignore the other Inspector and focused his attention on fixing himself a cup of tea. He wondered whether Gregson would likely continue blocking the door to their poor excuse for a kitchen or just follow him down the hall and to his office. He still had not decided which was worse.

"The Keifer case?" Gregson threw out, but Lestrade was not going to bite. He ducked under the much larger man and started toward his office, not surprised in the least to hear Gregson's footsteps coming after him.

"_The brilliant Inspector Lestrade?_" Lestrade assumed it was a quote; brilliant was not something Gregson would ever associate with the smaller man. "_Devoted not just to his job, but to the people of London?_" He heard Gregson scoff. "_One of the city's best and brightest?"_

Gregson entered the office behind Lestrade and helped himself to a seat. Lestrade sat at his desk and tried to look busy.

"Didn't Holmes solve that one for you?" Gregson asked. Lestrade shrugged, and Gregson did not press the matter. They all danced around the fact that the Yard had received a lot of the credit for Holmes work over the years. It was not something anyone ever discussed, and not something Lestrade cared to dwell on.

Gregson altered the direction of the conversation just enough that Lestrade could not justify throwing the man out of his office. "So you're the current favorite, Lestrade. I wonder what Hopkins did to upset them?"

Lestrade offered another shrug and and took a drink of his tea. "Give it a week." He offered, setting the cup back down. "Maybe less, and I'll be back to being the slowest Inspector in all of Britain."

"Three days." Gregson predicted.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Do you know something I don't?" He asked. Gregson smirked.

There was a knock on the door frame and Constable Evans poked his head in through the open door. "Package for you, Inspector. Someone left it for you at the front desk."

Evans handed the package over to Lestrade and excused himself as quickly as possible. He knew the look on Inspector Gregson's face, and he knew the expression on Lestrade's, and he knew he did not want to stick around for the show.

Lestrade frowned at the package wrapped in plain brown paper. It was roughly the size of a cigar box, with no message or writing on it of any kind, which was reason to be suspicious. He had been a Yarder for a long time now, and had never known anything good to come of mysterious packages of unknown origin.

"Are you going to open it?" Gregson asked, eying the package apprehensively. The last time he had opened an unlabeled delivery he had unwrapped the parcel to reveal a huge, disease-ridden black rat. It had been a miracle no one had ended up with the plague.

Lestrade carefully removed the brown paper and set it aside. He considered the cigar box in his hands. He doubted very much that it contained cigars. One, he could not think of anyone who would actually send him a box of cigars. Two, the box did not feel right in his hands.

He had a bad feeling about this.

He lifted the lid and nearly dropped the box. As it was he did set it down on his desk rather hastily and took a step back, feeling slightly ill.

Gregson stared down into the box, his eyes wide, all the color drained from his face. "Holy..." He began, but could not finish. Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath.

That turned out to be a mistake. It was all he could do not to react when the smell hit him. He fought back the nausea and turned to Gregson.

"Find Evans. I want to know everything about the drop-off. Send someone for Dr. Watson." He said. Gregson swallowed and nodded. "And keep this quiet for now. The last thing we need is a panic."

Gregson left, closing the door behind him. Lestrade sank into his chair.

"Mercy..." He breathed. He looked back down into the cigar box.

It was full of fingers.

* * *

><p>Author's note: I know. The beginning is too short, and the title isn't very good. If I come up with a better title, I'll change it, I promise. The next chapter and all following should also be longer.<p>

And I know I've been gone for too long, and without even school or work as an excuse. I crave your forgiveness, and beg that if you did miss me (sometimes I wonder if people even notice) you review, even if it's to tell me how bad the title is.

Thanks!


	2. Foe's Gifts

_"Foes' gifts are no gifts." -Sophocles_

* * *

><p>"Evans." The Constable turned immediately. "Sir?" He asked. He wondered if everything were all right. Inspector Gregson could be difficult to read at the best of times.<p>

"Were you at the front desk when Lestrade's package was dropped off?" Gregson asked. His eyes were troubled, even if the rest of him seemed calm.

Evans nodded warily. "Yes, sir. Is something wrong?"

Gregson paused long enough to catch Constable Smith's sleeve as the man passed. "Go to Baker Street and tell Watson that Lestrade needs him to come in and that it's important. Lestrade will be waiting for him in his office." He said. Smith simply nodded and set off. He did not ask any questions. Gregson obviously felt that Smith did not need to know the details, and both he and Smith knew that Watson would come based on the message Smith was to relay.

Gregson turned his attention back to Evans. "Come on." He said.

Evans followed. "Where are we going?" He asked.

"My office. I need to know everything you can tell me about the delivery."

Gregson closed and locked his office door behind him, and Evans knew something was wrong. Gregson never closed his door. The Inspector waved him to a chair and found his own seat behind his desk. Evans sat, feeling more certain with every passing second that he had done something very wrong, though he had no idea what that something could be.

Gregson leaned forward in his seat, his full, undivided attention on Evans. Having Gregson, who was not just one of the more intelligent Inspectors but also one of the larger men at the Yard, fully focused on him was something the Constable found more than a little unsettling.

"What happened?" The Inspector asked.

Evans took a deep breath and tried to organize his thoughts. "About ten minutes after you came in this morning a man approached the desk and set the package down. He said it was important, and asked me to make sure Inspector Lestrade got it today. Then he left." He stopped to take another breath but knew Inspector Gegson wanted more than that.

"He looked to be in his mid-thirties." He continued before Gregson had to ask. "Dark hair. Needed trimming. He hadn't shaved in a couple days. Blue eyes, dark circles under the eyes. Hooked nose. Average height. His clothes were worn, patched, and not very clean. He himself wasn't very clean. He seemed uncertain, but not overly anxious. I got the feeling he was just delivering a package and a message and earning a little coin in the process. He didn't seem in an unsual hurry to leave."

Evans thought for a moment longer. "He said, 'I have a package here for Mr. Lestrade. It's important he gets it today. Can you do that?' I told him I'd see that he received it."

Gregson nodded, and Evans realized the man was scribbling in his notebook. "Take a minute, Evans." He said. "See if you can remember anything else."

Evans frowned as he thought. "What's this about, Inspector?" He risked asking. "Was there something wrong with the package?"

Gregson offered him an insincere smile. "We're just trying to find out where it came from." He lied.

Evans knew when to let something go. "He had gloves with the fingers torn out." He remembered. "His fingers were stained. His nails were dirty. That's all I remember. Sorry, Inspector."

Gregson shook his head and snapped the notebook shut. "You did fine, Evans." He said, getting to his feet.

He showed the Constable to the door. "Don't discuss the package, or the man who dropped it off, with anyone else just yet, Evans." He added.

"Yes, sir." Evans replied. He hesitated at the door. "If you need anything else, sir-"

Gregson nodded, and Evans continued on his way, grateful that the man had accepted the gesture instead of coolly pointing out that he outranked the Constable and that if he did need anything he was more than justified in expecting Evans' cooperation whether it was offered or not.

He was grateful to avoid the ridicule, but Gregson had just confirmed that something was, in fact, wrong. Evans took some consolation in the fact that it was not his fault; if it had been Gregson would not have hesitated to let him have it.

* * *

><p>Doctor John Watson looked up from his breakfast as Mrs. Hudson entered the dining room and wondered who was calling. He had heard someone at the door, and heard a second set of feet on the stairs. It was a man who had called, but whether this man were calling for the Doctor himself or for Sherlock Holmes he did not know.<p>

"There's a Constable Smith here to see you, Doctor." She said. "Said he was sent with a message from Lestrade." The man in question took the introduction as permission to enter the room and moved to stand just inside the doorway. He did not plan on being here long.

"Have a seat," Watson offered, though he was almost certain the man would not take it. "What can I do for you, Constable?"

"Inspector Lestrade requests your presence down at the Yard." Smith replied promptly. "He says it's important, Sir. He will be awaiting you in his office."

Watson considered the perfectly ordinary looking man before him. He was the kind of person that could easily go unnoticed in a crowd and the kind of person it was easy to forget. His face, his patterns of speech, even his name, Smith, all lended themselves to anonymity.

It was not the first time Watson had wondered if such a protrayal were intentional, and it was not the first time Watson had wondered if Smith were the man's real name.

"Then let us not keep him waiting." Watson replied with a smile. He rose from the table and turned to Mrs. Hudson apologetically. "I am sure the meal was marvelous, Mrs. Hudson. I am sorry Holmes was not here to enjoy it."

The woman, bless her, smiled. "Go on, then, Doctor, and be careful while you're running around with Inspector Lestrade. She made as if to shoo him out the door. "That one attracts trouble almost as bad as Mr. Holmes."

Watson chuckled. "I still can't decide who's worse." He admitted. "I'll send word if I'm to be late." He promised.

He could hear her cleaning up the breakfast dishes as he followed the Constable out the door and down the stairs.

"I have a cab waiting." Smith said as they stepped out onto the street. Watson's eyebrows shot up. Whatever the matter was, it was certainly important.

It was also likely a medical matter. If Lestrade's primary concern had been solving a crime he would have asked for Holmes to come along as well. That he had not suggested that whatever Lestrade was dealing with, it was not something that the Inspector felt justified in calling Holmes in on.

Watson fervently hoped Lestrade had not gotten himself badly injured again.

"Mr. Holmes is out on a case?" Smith inquired as they climbed into the cab and set off for Scotland Yard.

"He is." Watson agreed. "He has been for three days now." He was not overly concerned; Holmes had been known to disappear like that, though he had not done so since his miraculous return from the grave. Watson had been surprised when his friend had not checked in the second day, but not worried.

"It's a shame of him to fret Mrs. Hudson like that." The Constable declared, but without animosity. Watson looked from the window to him. Smith shrugged. "She's a good woman." He said. "She's always been kind to us when we stop by on business." He smiled. "Almost always tries to feed us, too. She wanted me to stay for breakfast."

Watson chuckled. "I'm impressed. Lestrade rarely manages to escape when she tries to get him to stay."

"That's because Lestrade doesn't eat regular meals when he's on a case. If he's home the Mrs. makes him eat, but at work he's as bad as your Mr. Holmes." Smith offered, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Somehow, Watson was not surprised by the revelation. The sudden friendliness from a man who while on the job usually kept his words few and to the point, however, was something else, and it made Watson vaguely uneasy.

Smith must have noticed Watson's unease and realized the cause, because he promptly apologized. "Sorry," he said with a laugh, "I forget you don't usually see me around the Yard without Lestrade somewhere nearby." He said. "We get along because I know when to keep my mouth shut. Evans complains that I turn into the Inspector when the man's around, and that I'm even worse when he's not."

A nearly forgotten incident came to mind then: Constables Evans, Adams, and Smith needing medical attention after settling a dispute at some tavern, Evans declaring that Adams and Smith were Lestrade's favorites, and Smith insisting that one just needed to know how to handle Lestrade.

"Lestrade doesn't care for small talk when there's work to be done." Smith had said.

He also remembered speaking to Adams during _his_ off-duty hours, and how much more talkative the man had been then.

"So any idea what this was about?" Watson asked, shifting his focus back to the summons.

Smith hesitated for half a second before shaking his head. "Gregson was actually the one that sent me." He admitted. "It's never a good sign when he's acting on Lestrade's behalf." His gaze drifted to the streets outside the window. "He didn't offer any kind of explanation, and I knew better than to ask." He mused quietly.

He looked back over at Watson. "He was asking Evans about a package." He said. "Evans was worried that something was wrong."

"Did Gregson seem to know what was going on?" Watson asked.

Smith nearly smiled at that. "Inspector Gregson is-difficult to read. And that's putting it mildly. There's no telling how Gregson really feels about most things, or even how much or how little he knows about anything. It's like trying to figure out if Lestrade really doesn't know why anyone would visit Willie's after hours or if he just won't let himself admit that he knows because if he does know then he has to do something about it."

"Ah." Watson chose not to ask why someone would visit Willie's after hours. He was almost certain he did not want to know.

"That being said," Smith continued, "if anyone knows Lestrade's business it's Gregson, so it would not be much of a stretch to think that he does."

"Well, whatever the problem is, we'll find out soon enough." Watson said.

Smith actually laughed at that. "_You_ probably will. I have my own work to do once I get back."

* * *

><p>Smith and and Watson parted ways shortly after entering the Yard, Smith with a cheerful "Later, Doctor!" that Watson was still not entirely prepared for. Watson made his own way down the familiar hallway to Inspector Lestrade's office. He knocked on the closed door and was promptly invited in.<p>

Gregson and Lestrade both were waiting for him. As Waston came in their attention was on a cigar box sitting on Lestrade's desk, a sight Watson found odd. He did not think Lestrade smoked, and certainly had a difficult time picturing the man with a cigar.

Both men were looking at him now. "Doctor." Lestrade said in greeting, waving him to the remaining chair.

"Cigar?" Gregson offered innocently . Lestrade shot him a dirty look that told Watson the best answer to that question was probably no. "Good. We don't have any anyway." He continued before Watson could actually say anything.

"Somebody dropped off a package for me at the front desk this morning." Lestrade gestured towards the cigar box. "No message, no name, no idea where it came from."

"Except what Evans can tell us about the man that dropped it off," Gregson added, "but Evans thinks he was just delivering the package and had no idea what was in it."

"What was in it?" Watson asked.

Lestrade grimaced. "Not cigars." Gregson offered, receiving another dark look from the other Inspector.

"Fingers." Lestrade said, flipping the box lid open. Watson stepped closer to get a better look and wished he had not.

"Fingers." Watson repeated, reluctant to believe what his own eyes were telling him, that someone had left a box of around twenty severed fingers for Lestrade.

He took a step back and closed his eyes, collecting himself. Lestrade and Gregson both waited, neither speaking a word, for him to do so, leaving Watson to believe that the original discovery of the contents had left the two men more shaken up than they let on.

"I assume you want me to examine these." He finally said. "Would somewhere else be more appropriate?"

Gregson almost laughed. Lestrade refused to react. "We want to keep this quiet for now." The latter said grimly.

Watson nodded. "A box of severed fingers dropped off at Scotland Yard could cause a panic." He agreed. "I assume you mean from the rest of the men here as well."

"The fewer people that know the less likely it is to get out." Gregson confirmed.

"Evans and Smith won't talk, will they?" Watson wondered.

"They'd better not." Gregson retorted.

"They won't." Lestrade said. "They know when to keep their mouths closed." He closed the lid and picked up the box. "If anyone asks, I'll be out all day." He said to Gregson.

"If anything comes up, I'll handle it." The fair-haired Inspector assured him.

Lestrade nodded. "Come, Doctor." He said.

* * *

><p>Watson and Lestrade stood on either side of the table, looking down on the eleven severed fingers that had come from the cigar box.<br>"What do you think?" Lestrade broke the silence.

"Thumbs, index fingers, ring fingers...they aren't all the same." Watson shook his head. "I don't think any of these are even from the same body, Lestrade."

Lestrade sighed. "I was afraid of that." He admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know which possibility is worse: that someone killed all these people and cut their fingers off, or that they didn't."

Watson chose not to comment. "Two thumbs, three index fingers, two middle, three ring, and one pinky." He said. "We think, at this time, that five belong to men, four to women, and two to children of indeterminate gender."

Lestrade scowled down at the table as Watson continued. "They're all relatively fresh. Even the oldest show only moderate signs of decay." He leaned forward to re-examine one of the fingers he had identified as a ring finger. "I would say this is the oldest. I would also hesitate to say it had been dead-or severed-for more than a fortnight."

"That gives us something to work with." Lestrade replied. "Not much, but it's a start." He fell silent, studying the fingers spread across the table. Watson too found himself looking down at the fingers, but this time his view was less clinical. This time he saw men, women, and children. He saw families wondering what had happened to their loved ones. He saw fear, pain, and suffering. He saw, and fervently hoped he was wrong, death.

"Any idea why someone would send you a box full of fingers?" Watson asked, breaking the silence.

It took Lestrade a moment to answer, but when he did it was with a shake of his head. "The only reason I can think of is to send a message, but I can't think of anyone who would try to send a message that way."

"What kind of message does that send?" Watson wondered.

"Aside from 'I'm killing people and cutting off their fingers?' I have no idea." Lestrade replied.

"Does it mean anything to you?" Watson asked. "The fingers, the cigar box, any of it?" Lestrade shook his head.

"Nothing. None of it means anything to me.

The door opened, and Gregson joined them. "Learn anything?" He asked, coming over to study the collection of severed fingers on the table.

"Why would _you_ send someone a box of fingers?" Lestrade asked instead of answering.

"To send a message." Gregson replied promptly. "Does this mean anything to you?"

Lestrade again shook his head. "I can't think of any cases that might be related. I can't think of anyone I've arrested, questioned, worked with-I can't think of anyone I've known who would try to send a message that way."

"Then whoever sent it either miscalculated, or you aren't supposed to know what it means yet." Gregson speculated.

Lestrade considered this. "Do you think Hopkins knows anything about dismemberment?"

"Did you just say dismemberment?" Gregson wanted to know. "I don't know. It's never come up in any of our many social interactions that take place outside of the workplace."

Lestrade refused to be baited. "And within the workplace?" He asked.

Gregson huffed. "It's never come up there either." Came the grumbled reply. "Do you want me to ask him?"

"I'll take care of it." Lestrade looked up at Watson. "Mr. Holmes isn't back yet, is he?" He asked.

"He wasn't when I left." Watson told him, surprised. A second later a thought occurred to him. "You want his opinion."

Lestrade did not deny it. It no longer bothered him to admit that Sherlock Holmes could at a glance unravel puzzles that would take him years to figure out, if he ever did at all. "If you could bring the matter to his attention when he returns I would be grateful."

"I don't know when he'll be back, but I will certainly mention it to him." Watson promised. Another thought occurred to him, causing his brows to furrow. "Lestrade, you knew Holmes was out on a case?"

Lestrade nodded. "I am aware of a few details of the case." He divulged, but did not offer anything farther.

Watson shrugged it off. "I don't suppose he told you when he'd be back?" He asked, and Lestrade chuckled.

"Goodness, no." He replied. "I imagine he'll return whenever he's resolved the matter, but beyond that I haven't the slightest idea."

"Anything else I can do for you?" Watson asked, moving away from the table.

"No, Doctor. Thank you for your time." Lestrade replied.

"Keep me informed." Watson said and excused himself. As he left he could hear Lestrade bringing Gregson up to speed on the unpleasant results of their examination.

* * *

><p>Author's note: Better? Longer? Hopefully this will keep up.<p>

I've gotten nine reviews already. Thanks guys! I am perhaps a bit too easily discouraged, but the reviews were just what I needed (so if you even if you were just humoring me, thanks).You guys are wonderful.


	3. Carol

Superintendent Hopkins caught Doctor Watson on his way out. "Hello, Doctor, good to see you again."

Watson fought back a smile, though it was a near thing. "I do still work here, Hopkins." He pointed out mildly. "I was here yesterday."

Hopkins shrugged. "I've been busy." He admitted. "I thought the paperwork was bad before." The words were said with a smile, however.

"You seem to be settling well into your new position." Watson noted. "How are the other Inspectors taking it?"

Hopkins laughed. "I think they're mostly just glad it isn't them." He declared. Watson shook his head and smiled at the younger man.

Hopkins had been shocked to learn that he was being chosen as the former Superintendent Marshall's replacement, and had been more than a little nervous at the thought of being placed in a position of authority over men who had been at the Yard far longer he had and were far more experienced than he was.

He was filling the position admirably, from what Watson had seen, and the doctor had certainly not heard any complaints so far, not from Constables or Inspectors.

Hopkins' expression grew more serious. "Have you seen Lestrade around?" He asked. "He's not in his office and Gregson's not anywhere to be found either, so I can't ask _him_ where Lestrade is."

"Lestrade and I just finished going over the details of a new case." Watson offered. If Lestrade had not filled Hopkins in yet, Watson was not about to be the one to tell him. Neither man would thank him for that.

Hopkins seemed to realize there was something he was not being told, but did not ask. "Thank you, Watson." He said instead. "Good afternoon."

As Watson left a ragged boy of about ten stepped in front of Inspector Hopkins. Hopkins, for his part, eyed the young child warily, as if expecting the worst.

The boy held out a note; Hopkins accepted it reluctantly. He opened it, and his eyes quickly scanned the message inside.

The color drained from the Superintendent's face as he stared at the paper. "No." It was almost a whisper. "It's not possible, it-it can't be true." Wide eyes stared through the paper, past the boy, focusing on nothing.

The boy was angry now. "It is too!" He declared, loudly enough that most everyone in the room could hear. "You're my Father! You are!" Inspector Bradstreet, just in from questioning a husband and wife about a break-in, was not the only person to stop and stare.

Hopkins came to, then, with a quick shake of his head, and his eyes drifted from the letter down to the boy claiming to be his child. "That's not- that's not what I meant." He told the boy, a slight tremor in his voice. He swallowed and licked his lips as he tried to find the right words. "Your mother, boy. What-how-what happened?"

The boy's expression was abruptly closed, revealing nothing.

Hopkins sighed. "She wouldn't have sent you to me if I couldn't be trusted." He pointed out.

The lad considered that. Then he shrugged. "She just got sick, is all." He said. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "And we couldn't afford a doctor. I told her to ask you for help, but she wouldn't hear of it, and sent you that note saying to stay away, and you listened to it. And she got sicker and sicker till at last she gave me that letter, and said to take it to you after she'd been taken away and not before." He glared at Hopkins, trying not to cry.

Hopkins himself looked less than steady.

"So what's gonna happen now?" The boy demanded. "What'cha gonna do with me?" He was scared; he'd known too much hardship and trouble already not to be, but he held himself fast, waiting for the Inspector to declare his fate.

Hopkins looked the boy over, from head to toe, very slowly. "You're going to go home with me tonight." He informed the boy. "And my wife will have a fit, and we'll argue, and she'll be angry with me for a long time, but in the end you will stay, and she'll treat you well all the same." He considered the boy's clothes. "But she'll probably insist that you get cleaned up before you set foot in the house."

"In the meantime," he continued, "you can sit and wait in my office." The boy followed him down the hall and allowed himself to be escorted into Hopkins' office. Alone, the boy stood uncertainly in the middle of the office, unsure of what he was supposed to do while he was waiting.

Hopkins tried to push this recent development out of his mind and went in search of Lestrade. He knew Watson well enough to know something was on his mind, and he knew Lestrade well enough to know that when he disappeared and Gregson vanished with him something was usually wrong.

Bradstreet found Hopkins before Hopkins could find Lestrade.

The larger man put an arm around the younger and steered him down the hall and towards his own office. Hopkins stifled a groan; he knew where this was going, and he knew it was unlikely that Bradstreet was going to let him out of it even if he threatened him.

"Sit down." Bradstreet said, closing the door behind them. Hopkins sat, though he did so resentfully. He had no desire to have the conversation Bradstreet apparently felt he needed to have.

Hopkins raised his eyebrows at the other man and waited. He should have known better. Bradstreet was the patient sort; he could wait forever for Hopkins to start talking if he needed to.

Hopkins did not have forever. He also did not wish to discuss what had just happened. He needed to talk to Lestrade and, if the man's unavailibility during the day were any indication, Lestrade had his own problems to report.

Bradstreet met his silent stare with his usual good humor and only the slightest hint of sympathy in his eyes. "So you have a son." He said, choosing to broach the subject for the younger man.

Hopkins sighed. "Yes." He admitted. "I always suspected-" he frowned, "To be honest, I was almost certain he was mine. She never said, and I always assumed she had a reason for it..." He trailed off uncertainly, not sure what else he was supposed to say.

He was not even sure what he was supposed to be feeling right now.

"We grew up together." Hopkins found himself saying. "Were thick as thieves." He laughed, then amended the statement. "We were thick. Sometimes we were thieves. Pickpockets." He fell silent, trying to hold back the truth. Trying not to accept reality.

"I can't believe she's gone." He said. "I never even knew she was sick." He closed his eyes and tried to deny the sudden tightness in his chest.

"You loved her." He heard Bradstreet murmur, and the surprise in the other man's voice made him open his eyes.

"I asked her to marry me." Hopkins confessed with a half strangled laugh. "We were twelve at the time, and she told me not to be stupid."

Bradstreet managed a small smile at that. "Did Lucy know about her?"

Hopkins sighed. "She didn't ask about where I went just like I didn't ask where she went." He said. "I never talked about Clover, and she never talks about the company she keeps."

It was Bradstreet's turn to sigh. The lad had hoped for more. He had wanted better. He deserved better.

"What are you going to do?" Bradstreet asked hesitantly. It was not any of his business, not really.

"Take him home." Hopkins said, giving Bradstreet an odd look. "What else would I do?"

_That_ made Bradstreet smile. "I wouldn't expect anything less." He said it jestingly, but it was the truth. The amusement faded quickly. "Are you going to be all right?"

Hopkins swallowed and licked his his lips before answering. "Yeah. I think so." He stood up; he really needed to talk to Lestrade. Bradstreet watched him go.

He was halfway out the door before the Inspector spoke. "If you need anything..." Hopkins looked back at Bradstreet and actually smiled.

"I will. Thank you." He said. He was out the door a second later.

* * *

><p>"What do you know about dismemberment?" Lestrade asked as Hopkins entered the room. It was not a promising conversation opener.<p>

"There was a guy the shopkeepers in my neighborhood used to pay for protection when I was a kid." Hopkins answered, coming over to stand next to the Inspector. "I remember there was a butcher that refused to pay-ran the guy off with a cleaver one day, disappeared the next. No one knew what had happened to him until the next time someone said they wouldn't, or couldn't pay. His hand showed up on their front step the next morning."

"You could tell it was the butcher's hand?" Lestrade wanted to know.

Hopkins shrugged. "Figured it was him. Only person I ever knew that had six fingers on one hand."

Lestrade grimaced, and Hopkins frowned. "Why?" He asked, though he was no longer certain he wanted to know the reason behind Lestrade's sudden interest in the gruesome topic.

"Someone left a package for me at the front desk. It turned out to be a cigar box containing eleven fingers."

Hopkins had been expecting something bad, but he had not been expecting that. "Eleven fingers." He repeated. "You asked Watson's opinion?"

Lestrade nodded. "Mr. Holmes isn't back yet, or I would have asked him as well. Gregson was with me when I opened the box. He and Constable Evans are the only other people who know."

"You think we should keep this quiet." Hopkins surmised.

"I think it could cause a panic if it got out." Lestrade replied. His expression changed, and he looked Hopkins over critically, but did not say anything. Hopkins was grateful. He did not want to repeat his earlier conversation with Bradstreet anymore than he wanted to have a heart-to-heart talk with Lestrade.

* * *

><p>Roger Bradstreet's wife greeted him as he came in the door. "Hello, my love." He said, pulling her into a hug. His daughter was a second behind his wife, demanding his attention as well. He hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. "It's good to be home." He admitted.<p>

"Rough day?" His wife asked.

"Not for me." Roger replied. "Hopkins had an interesting afternoon, and I don't know what Lestrade's gotten into, but my day wasn't bad."

"Dinner's ready." Sophie announced. "I helped cook."

"Really?" Roger asked, as his wife favored their child with a fond smile. "Did you make sure Mum didn't burn anything tonight?" Sophie giggled, and Melissa good-naturedly slapped him on the back of the head. "Ow." He protested half-heartedly, prompting another giggle from Sophie and an even wider smile from his wife.

He stepped down the hall and into the bathroom to clean up before dinner and the women both disappeared into the kitchen.

"Oh. There's a package for you in the sitting room, Roger." His wife called. "Someone left it on the front porch for you this afternoon. Melissa and I found it when we came back from our walk."

* * *

><p>Author's note: Bear with me. There's a lot I want to do here. Do let me know if things get too slow or confusing or far out of focus. And don't worry, Holmes should show up soon. He just has his own case to wrap up, and then he'll be back safe and sound.<p>

Again, thanks for all the reviews. I really appreciate them (and treasure them, to be perfectly honest). I don't quite frame them and put them on the wall, but they are very encouraging.


	4. Surprise Packages

Bradstreet looked far more tense than Lestrade could ever remember seeing him save once. "Do you have a minute?" He asked, skipping the usual niceties and going straight to business, uncharacteristic behavior for him. Lestrade might regularly avoid small talk when there was work to be done, but Bradstreet could be infuriatingly relaxed, even under pressure.

Today he was anything but. Worry clouded his features and made him look older, and his forceful stride as he had entered the Yard would have been a match for Gregson at his most determined.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and nodded toward his office; Bradstreet relaxed minutely, but something was still quite obviously bothering him.

He caught a glimpse of the box under the other man's arm as Bradstreet closed the door behind them and hoped he was wrong. When Bradstreet took a deep breath before setting the box on his desk, Lestrade knew he was not.

"Somebody left this on my front step yesterday while the girls were out for a walk." Bradstreet said, once again going straight for the kill.

Lestrade braced himself and lifted the lid. He was only mildly surprised by the contents. It was a small consolation that they were not more fingers, but it was still not a pleasant sight.

"Did either your wife or your daughter see these?" Lestrade asked, lowering the lid.

"No, thank God." Bradstreet replied, absently massaging his temple as he continued to stare at the box. "What does it mean, Lestrade?" He asked.

"I don't know." Lestrade admitted. He looked over at the other man. "You aren't the first, Bradstreet." He said, causing the other to look up at him in confusion. "Somebody left me a similar package yesterday."

Something clicked in Bradstreet's eyes. "_That's_ what you and Doctor Watson were up to yesterday."

Lestrade nodded. "We're trying to keep it quiet for now, but if this keeps up," he gestured toward the box on his desk, "I don't know if we'll be able to."

"Have you filled Hopkins in?" Bradstreet wanted to know.

"Yes." Lestrade considered the box for a moment. "I'll have Watson take a look at these too." He said. Bradstreet was relieved; in spite of all he had seen through the years, this was something he was not sure he was prepared to deal with. Lestrade might not flinch at the contents of the box, but Bradstreet fell slighly ill just thinking about it.

"Let me know if there's anything I can do." Bradstreet offered. Lestrade nodded.

"Just keep this to yourself for now." He said.

* * *

><p>Watson could not decide whether to be amused or slightly exhasperated by the note on the mantle. Holmes had apparently made it home this morning just in time to receive another client and was already off again; at least this time he was hunting in London, which meant he would be home a little more often than he had this last case.<p>

Lestrade would not be happy to hear he had missed the chance to consult with Holmes, however. This gruesome matter of receiving a box of severed fingers had the Inspector at a loss, and Watson guessed that Gregson, for all that he appeared unbothered enough to even joke about the situation, was also a bit out of his depth.

Mrs. Hudson arrived with breakfast; Watson had just set down to eat when she reappeared, a look of long-suffering on her face. "There's a Constable Adams here to see you, Doctor." She announced, then fixed the Constable with a stern eye. "I'll not have a good meal going to waste again, young man. The Doctor can take the time for breakfast, and you can join him, and your Inspector Lestrade can come take the matter up with me if he has a problem with it."

She all but glared at the Constable until he meekly took a seat across from Watson. Apparently satisfied, she left them to themselves as Watson obligingly offered the Constable the plate that would have been used by Holmes and began serving up breakfast.

"Inspector Lestrade sends his apologies and asks you to come see him at your earliest convenience." Adams informed Watson with a slightly sheepish grin.

"At my earliest convenience?" Watson mused. "That doesn't sound much like Lestrade. Coffee?"

"Please." The Constable replied. Then he laughed. "I don't mean to impose..."

Watson waved the apology aside before it could form. "Not at all, Constable, though I must confess I hate the thought of keeping Lestrade waiting. I would rather not have his ire directed at you or Mrs. Hudson for the delay."

"You can try to take the blame," Adams replied as they tucked into their plates, "but Lestrade has had more than a few run-ins with your landlady, and I've never heard tell of him coming off the victor. I think he knew that the good woman would not take kindly to you being pulled away from your breakfast two mornings in a row when he sent me."

"At my earliest convenience." Watson repeated, chuckling. "But to be honest, I've never heard of Lestrade having any disagreements with Mrs. Hudson, and the woman herself never seemed to mind his presence."

"So long as he didn't interfere with yours or Mr Holmes' meals." Adams amended, and Watson had to agree with him. "Near as I can tell, she seems to think the Inspector needs looking after, though he appears to think just the opposite. That's where they disagree, but as I said, I've never seen Lestrade win. Between you and me, I think he may be more than a little afraid of your landlady."

"With good reason." Both men turned to stare in surprise at the man standing in the door. Gregson raised an eyebrow at the Constable, who stood up from the table as if his seat were on fire. "Lestrade sent you?" He asked, and Adams nodded.

For a second Watson thought the fair-haired Inspector looked troubled, but the moment passed. "And you thought you'd sit and gossip a bit about your betters while you kept the man waiting, not to mention neglected your own duties." Adams paled slightly at the accusation, but met Gregson's gaze squarely. One thing was apparent: the Inspector was not pleased to see Adams at Baker Street.

"Get along." Gregson ordered. "I'll bring Dr. Watson along when he's ready."

"I'm ready now." Watson said, hoping to draw some of the attention away from Constable Adams. "Just let me get my medical bag." He had learned years ago that it was never wise to visit Scotland Yard without it; it was always most needed when left behind.

Adams nonetheless retreated from the room. Watson shot Gregson a question glance that the other either did not notice or simply ignored.

The two rejoined Adams on the street a minute later and climbed into the cab the Constable had flagged.

* * *

><p>The ride to Scotland Yard was a silent one. Constable Adams sat still and quiet, possibly lost in his own thoughts. Gregson stared out the window, a box that Watson had not noticed back at Baker Street held in his hands.<p>

Watson stared at the box, and found himself guessing why Gregson had appeared in his sitting room halfway through breakfast.  
>Gregson caught him staring and offered him a humorless grin.<p>

Upon their arrival at Scotland Yard, Adams disappeared almost immediately, whether intent on his own business or simply eager to escape Inspector Gregson Watson could not guess. Gregson wasted no time, but made a beeline straight for Lestrade's office. Watson followed not far behind.

Lestrade noticed the box Gregson was carrying almost immediately. "Come on." He said, leading them back out. "Bradstreet got a package too. Yesterday afternoon."

"This was on the front porch this morning." Gregson said indicating the box he carried. "So you aren't being singled out."

"Apparently not." Lestrade replied.

* * *

><p>Gregson was more interested in Bradstreet's surprise package than in his own. "More fingers?" He asked, eying the new cigar box. Lestrade shook his head.<p>

"Toes." He said. "Nine of them."

"Only nine?" Gregson asked, and Lestrade blinked.

"Isn't nine enough?" He demanded. "What's in there?" He asked, nodding toward Gregson's package. Gregson shoved it toward him. Lestrade opened it up and looked inside.

He reached inside and gingerly laid the hand, cut off at the wrist and minus its fingers, on the table next to the severed toes.

Gregson left Lestrade and Watson to deal with the newest additions to their grotesque collection on their own. They wordlessly set themselves to the unpleasant task of examing the hand, and the toes, and reexaming the fingers Lestrade had recieved. It was a time-consuming endeavor, and not near rewarding enough.

Watson did manage to match one of the thumbs to the severed hand Gregson had found on his porch, and he was able to determine that both the hand and the toes had been severed at roughly the same time as the fingers had.

"There's no way of knowing if any of the toes came from the same body as the hand and thumb." Watson admitted reluctantly.

"Not without something to else to match them to." Lestrade muttered. "You said you didn't think any of the fingers were from the same person. What about the toes?"

Watson sighed. "The same." He stared at the appendages before him. "Is this going to continue?" He asked, his voice nearly a whisper. "Are pieces going to keep showing up until we have entire bodies to put back together?"

Lestrade too looked down at the table, but he refused to speculate on the matter, at least out loud. "I'm going to send Smith and Adams out to check for disturbed graves." Was what he did say.

"Graverobbers?" Watson was skepitical. "I hardly think it likely, Lestrade."

Lestrade shrugged. "At least we'll know for certain." He said.

* * *

><p>Hopkins stopped and stared at the boy being hauled into Scotland Yard by Constable Evans. He bit back an oath and made his way toward the two. "Evans!" He barked.<p>

Something in his tone must have warned both of them, for the boy immediately stopped struggling and Evans tensed. "Sir?" Evans asked, confused. He could think of no reason for the Superintendent to look as upset as he currently did.

"What are you doing?" Hopkins demanded, and Evans hurried to explain.

"I caught him skulking around in one of the rougher parts of the city." Evans offered. "The kind of company he was keeping is the kind that'll bring him nothing but trouble."

If it had been any other boy, Hopkins would have smiled. Evans was one of the few men on the force that seemed to share Hopkins' understanding of what life on the streets could be like. He was not above turning a blind eye to folks just trying to survive, or above meddling now and again in a boy's affairs to try and keep him from trouble down the road.

He glared down at the boy. "Thank you, Evans, I'll take charge of him." He said. Evans nodded and relinquished his grip on the boy; Hopkins would hopefully be able to get through to the child where Evans had so far been unsuccessful.

"Traitor." The boy muttered under his breath, but both men heard him. Hopkins stifled a groan, but Evans laughed.

"It's for your own good, Carol, my boy." He promised as he left the lad in Hopkins' hands.

Constable Evans gone, Carol looked up at his father. "I wasn't doing anything against the law." He insisted stubbornly. "He says the street ain't fitting for kids to play in, is all."

"He's probably right, if that's all." Hopkins repied. "But just to be sure, empty your pockets." Pickpocketing could be a hard habit to break.

"My pockets?" The boy echoed fearfully. Hopkins nodded, and the boy took a look around. "Now? 'Ere?" Another nod.

He hesitated for only a second before obeying, and held out the meager contents of his pockets: a pencil stub, a few small stones, and three shillings.

"Where did you get those?" Hopkins inquired. The boy swallowed, his eyes widened, and he looked down at the floor.

"I din't steal them, I swear. It were honest work!"

Still Hopkins waited. "'E said all I had to do was go in and see if a man was there!" The boy protested.

"Who?" Hopkins asked. "Where?"

"'E said the man wasn't a very nice person. That 'e was a detective, and 'e was looking for that man." The boy was clearly upset by now.

"And he gave you three shillings to go inside and see if the man was there." Hopkins pressed. The boy nodded. "What did the detective look like?"

"'E was tall, and skinny, and 'e dressed like 'e was poor even though 'e wasn't really." The boy explained. "I think 'e was trying not to be noticed, but 'e wasn't hungry enough. I don't think 'e even thought about food once, and 'e was standing just downwind of where Mrs. Elder sells 'er breads and stuff."

Hopkins nodded to show he knew where that was. Then he stared at the boy. "Where did he send you?" He asked one last time. When the boy did not reply, he knew the answer anyway.

It made him furious.

* * *

><p>Jones looked up from his desk and scowled at both Constable Smith and the man he had brought along with him.<p>

"Lestrade and Gregson are both busy." Smith offered by way of explanation. "Mr. Holmes here said he needed to see someone immediately."

Jones eyed Holmes warily. "What do you need?" He asked.  
>"An arrest warrant." Holmes replied promptly. "And a few men to help in the apprehension of a murderer."<p>

Jones looked over at Smith, who had not yet left, then back at Holmes. "You've got your men." He said. "I take it you feel the explanation can wait." He said, standing. "Let's go."

The three men did not get far before a very angry Inspector Hopkins caught sight of them and started shouting.

"Holmes!" Even Lestrade, who had reappeared from somewhere with Gregson and Watson in tow, winced; Hopkins could have matched either him or Holmes himself for sheer volume. The fury that backed it was another matter entirely. "What the devil is wrong with you?"

Hopkins was heading their way. Jones looked towards Holmes, but he seemed completely baffled by the greeting he was receiving.

"You sent a ten year old child into Jack's?" The man demanded, coming to a stop inches away from the amateur detective. "To look for someone you were hunting."

Holmes eyed Hopkins warily, uncertain of the reason for his fury. "You are surely not unaware of the fact that I do, on occasion, utilize children in my work." He reminded the man cautiously.

"You sent a ten year old boy into Jack's!" Hopkins repeated, his eyes blazing. Even Lestrade was at a loss for words at the sight of the livid man standing before them. "A ten year old boy! Into Jack's!"

Holmes actually looked to Jones for help. Jones shrugged; he understood less of what was going on than Holmes did. "The boy was hungry." Holmes said, as if he needed to defend himself. "I would have been recognized by my quarry. I gave him a coin to go in for me."

"You paid him three bloody shillings to go into Jack's!" Hopkins fumed.

Jones decided they were definitely missing something. Usually when Hopkins got stuck on something like this, and that was rarely, it had to do with something from his past, a past he only spoke of when these rare occasions occurred and usually only after Lestrade had dragged it out of him.

Across the room Lestrade braced himself to ask for clarification, but Hopkins beat him to it.

"Jack's is named after Jack the bloody Ripper!" Hopkins roared.

Someone had a sick sense of humor, apparently, but how that fit in-

"Golly, they ain't gonna know any better." A ragged urchin had materialized beside Hopkins. "'E didn't know no better. How could 'e? And anyways," the boy added, "I took the money and went in, and 'e didn't make me do that."

"Which is daft of you, yourself, boy. You oughta have your ears boxed." Hopkins fixed the boy with a look.

"I wasn't scared!" The boy declared.

Hopkins raised an eyebrow. "You shoulda been." He snapped. "Adults is scared to go in there, if they know what's good for them." His speech was now nearly as bad as the child's.

"I've done that and worse afore, to feed me and Ma." The boy retorted. "And afore you tell me how daft that is, we had to eat somehow. If you hadn't listened to that stupid bloody letter, or if she hadn't a been so stubborn, maybe I'd a been at home learning your stupid letters instead!"

The boy glared up at Hopkins as if every problem in the world were the Inspector's fault. Even more unsettling, Hopkins' shoulders slumped.

"I helped as much as she'd let me." He finally told the boy in a small voice.

"And she didn't want to bother you." The boy replied, uncertainly. "You 'ad your own family, and we were managing, till she got sick. And that weren't your fault. She wouldn't a let you 'elp even if you'd knowed."

Hopkins sighed, and nodded. Then he turned to glare at Holmes one last time. "Sending kids into Jack's, you must be out of your bleeding head." He grumbled under his breath as he turned away.

A thought occurred to him, and he turned back. "Was he there? The man you were looking for?" Holmes nodded, still a bit off balance from Hopkins' performance. "Did you go after him?"

"We're doing that now." Jones rightly guessed.

Hopkins swore. Then he turned on his heel and quickly walked away.

* * *

><p>Holmes left with Jones and Smith, and Lestrade left Watson and went looking for Hopkins. He passed Bradstreet on his way. The other Inspector offered him one of those smiles.<p>

"This looks to be an interesting week." Bradstreet commented, but said nothing more. Lestrade guessed it probably had something to do with Hopkins, however.

He found Hopkins in his office, doing paperwork. The boy was with him.

"So Jack's should be avoided?" Lestrade asked, sticking his head in.

"Like the plague." The boy replied, crossing himself and-

"Don't spit on the floor." Hopkins said without looking up, just in the nick of time.

The boy looked over at him incredulously, but did not spit. Instead he eyed Lestrade warily.

"This is Inspector Lestrade." Hopkins introduced the man, his attention still on his papers.

"Is he okay?" The boy wanted to know.

"He's a good man, but you don't want to let him catch you at anything." Hopkins replied.

"So he's not like you?"

"I'm not as good as he is."

"He doesn't know about stuff." The boy declared, and Hopkins actually put down his papers to look at the boy.

"That's because if he knew about it, he'd have to stop it. That's the kind of person he is."

"Oh." The boy pondered that.

Lestrade cleared his throat. Both Hopkins and the boy looked his way. "Should I ask who this is, Hopkins?" He asked warily.

Hopkins managed not to look away as he answered. "This is my son."

Lestrade blinked. "Your-?"

"You remember Clover." Hopkins said quietly. Lestrade nodded.

"She got sick." The boy piped up. "And died. So I was supposed to come find Mr. Stanley, 'cause 'e's my Papa."

"He's staying with us." Hopkins said. He was in some serious trouble with his wife, from what little Lestrade knew of the woman, and not just for the more obvious reasons.

Lestrade managed to nod. "What's his name?" He asked.

"Carol." The boy put in. "Cause Mama always said when they were little, they used to play house, and he always wanted to name the baby Carol, even if it was a boy. He used to say it was a boy's name too, not just a girl's."

Carol didn't seem to mind his name. "I told the guys that it was a boy's name too. They said I was lying and that I must really be a girl. So I got into a fight with them, and licked Micah, and so they decided I was telling the truth after all." He told Hopkins.

"They didn't give you any more trouble after that?" Hopkins asked automatically, as if it were only the most natural thing in the world for the boy-his son to have been fighting.

"Nope, except for Johnny, but he stopped after I shoved his face in the mud a couple times. But if anybody's a girl, it's Johnny. 'E always starts crying when he doesn't get what he wants. And he's scared, all the time. He can't help it though, 'cause his Daddy's always beating on him and saying he's gonna kill him and stuff. And anyway, he's only five."

Lestrade didn't know what to say to that.

"You should go beat his Daddy up and tell him to stop beating on Johnny. Or arrest him." Carol suggested.

Hopkins shook his head. "I can't do that, Carol."

"Why not?"

"Because Johnny's uncle is Mr. Ritchie, remember?" Hopkins reminded him grimly.

"Oh, right." Carol frowned. "He'd kill you all kinds a dead, and then he'd leave you lying in the street with your face all cut up." He thought for a minute. "Well, what if you told the Mr. Ritchie that he was beating on his kid? Could you do that?"

Hopkins sighed. "I'll think about it." He said, finally.

Lestrade tried to excuse himself before he learned something he really did not want to know.

Hopkins stood up and followed him out. "Stay here." He told Carol. The boy nodded.

Outside the office Hopkins pulled the door shut. "Any new developments?" He asked.

"Bradstreet found a box of toes yesterday afternoon and Gregson found a severed hand without any fingers this morning." Lestrade replied, his voice low. "One of the thumbs matches the hand. I'm going to send Smith and Adams out to check for disturbed graves."

"Graverobbers?" Hopkins, too, was skeptical, but was content to let Lestrade investigate whatever option he thought best-there was always a reason behind the action.

Lestrade scowled. "I think we need to bring the Inspectors in. Three packages have been delivered, all to Inspectors here at the Yard."

"You think there will be more." Hopkins looked concerned. "I'll leave that to you, Lestrade. Bring in whoever you think best, but try not to let it get beyond the Yarders."

* * *

><p>"He'll be back." Bradstreet assured Watson. The doctor, for his part, raised an eyebrow at the Inspector; something seemed a bit off about the man, though it may have been nothing more than finding a box of toes the day before. That was enough to throw anybody off.<p>

"Holmes or Lestrade?" He asked with a smile, and Bradstreet laughed.

"Both, or either, so long as nothing urgent comes up." Bradstreet retorted. "Then you might lose them both."

Watson chuckled. "Is Hopkins all right?" He asked. Speaking of off-Jones alone seemed to be his usual self today.

"He'll be fine." Bradstreet said vaguely. "He's gotten a surprise or two these past few days."

Watson let the matter rest, but took advantage of the other opening Bradstreet had given him. "How are _you_, by the way? I heard you received a surprise of your own yesterday."

The smile faded, and the Inspector actuall shuddered. "There's something I never care to see again." He admitted. "I nearly dropped them, box and all, when I saw inside." He managed a small smile.

"I'm just glad the girls weren't there to see."

"Small mercies." Watson murmured. "I've seen a lot in my time, but I'll admit that the sight bothered me all the same." He did not mention that it only added to the horror of Lestrade's own box, or that Gregson's contribution had in turn made the effect worse; he did not know if Bradstreet were aware of the other packages, or if he even needed to be.

Lestrade reappeared as Bradstreet had predicted. "We need to talk." He said to Bradstreet. "Find Gregson and tell him we're meeting in the basement."

"Autopsy?" Bradstreet guessed. He did not look pleased.  
>Lestrade nodded and turned to Watson. "I'd like you to be there, if you aren't too busy."<p>

"I can be there." Watson assured him. "Would I be correct in assuming that you want Holmes there as well?"

"And Jones." Lestrade added. "I'm going to hunt down Evans and Adams. Evans can do the job as well as Smith, and the sooner they get started on this the better."

Bradstreet watched Lestrade as he turned and left. "I'm not sure I like this." He said before he also went off.

Watson was sure. He did not like this, not in the least.

* * *

><p>Jones took the news as well as he ever took any news. He grumbled a bit as he and Smith went off to dispose of their prisoner, but that was more about Lestrade taking long enough to do something Watson could not quite make out.<p>

Holmes was interested and wanted to know what was going on immediately, but Watson thought it best to let Lestrade explain the matter and said so. Holmes made a dismissive noise in his throat, but did not press the issue.

Everyone else had gathered long before Lestrade finally arrived. Gregson and Bradstreet both knew something of the matter, and Bradstreet seemed in no hurry to 'get on with it,' as Jones impatiently put it. Holmes seemed to agree with Jones; he also wished to know what this was about. Watson himself was more inclined to Bradstreet's way of thinking; he had had enough of this terrible business already.

At last Lestrade did arrive, and wasted little time in bringing those present all up to speed. Gregson took what little he did not already know with little more than a shrug, though Bradstreet, who had not been entirely caught off guard, looked as if he might quite probably be ill as the severed appendages were produced.

Holmes, predictably, moved in to get a closer look, prompting a snort from Jones, who had not so much as blinked at anything Lestrade had said.

He met the glares and raised eyebrows unconcernedly. "What?" He demanded. "This bothers you?" He gestured toward the table.

"It doesn't you?" It was Gregson who asked, much to Watson's surprise.

Jones shrugged. "When I was twelve Mum got tired of Dad beating on her and knocked his skull in with a frying pan. She chopped him into pieces with the woodaxe. We took them, in a couple old sacks, down to the river that night, threw him over the bridge." The memory did not seem to trouble him, but even Holmes paused in his examination of the severed hand to stare at him.

Lestrade recovered first. "Why chop him into pieces?" He asked.

Jones did not answer right away. "I suppose it was easier to carry him that way. Less suspicious, at any rate." He fell silent, and his eyes were distant as if he were searching the foul memory. "There was a lot of anger in Mum." He said at last, and his eyes focused once more on the table and its contents. "But look at these cuts, Lestrade. They're clean. Neat. Even. Precise."

"Not done in anger, then." Gregson surmised.

Jones shook his head. "Not a chance." He said.

It was Gregson who suggested that if it were the Inspectors of Scotland Yard being targeted, then perhaps it might be wise to set a watch over those remaining who had not yet been visited. He meant Jones, of course, but thought Hopkins should be included.

"He's only recently been promoted." He pointed out. "And would only make one extra person to worry about."

"But why us?" Bradstreet wanted to know. Seeing the looks he received in response, he clarified. "What I mean is, why us specifically. Why not any of the Constables?"

"We have to start somewhere." Lestrade replied. "The Constables could easily be targets as well, but we can't assign watches over everyone. We don't know that it's us, but we do know that out of four Inspectors-or five, if you prefer" he said with a glance toward Gregson, "three have already received these packages. I wouldn't call it a coincidence."

"You wouldn't call anything a coincidence." Gregson accused. Lestrade ignored him.

"All the same," the small man continued, "I am going to bring Evans and Smith in. Adams as well." He added as if an afterthought. "They can keep an ear out just in case any of the Constables do end up involved."

"What happens when this gets out?" Jones wanted to know. "You can't pretend you don't know it will, Lestrade. Something like this, it's only a matter of time."

"So far Hopkins is the only person outside this room who knows." Lestrade replied. "So far the packages have all be delivered discreetly. If that continues-"

"Which it may or may not." Jones interrupted. "And you're in charge of the case, so it'll be your neck on the line when it gets out that you kept quiet not only about these 'packages' but also about who they've been delivered to."

"I'll deal with it when it happens." Lestrade retorted. "For now there's enough to worry about without people panicking over a potential spree of murders."

* * *

><p>Author's note: And here's another chapter. Sorry it took so long. I'm on vacation, but I didn't forget you all.<p>

They seem to be getting longer, which is a good thing, I think. I like to think it's a good thing. I hope I'm not drawing things out too much.

Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing! As ever, your reviews are what keep me writing.


	5. Gravedigging

_Author's note: I'm back! I hope. As ever, I apologize for both my absence and the subsequent delay._

* * *

><p>"I hate graveyards." Constable Evans complained. He did not bother saying it under his breath; Adams was the only other person around.<p>

Adams grinned at the proclamation. "Superstitious?" He asked.

"No," Evans replied. "I don't believe in ghosts, or goblins, or what-have-you." Unconvinced, Adams laughed, and Evans rolled his eyes. "I don't." He maintained. "But that doesn't mean I like graveyards. They're creepy enough without worrying about ghosts." The man shuddered, but continued talking. "Think of it. Every one of these stones, every one of these graves-these all used to be living, breathing people like you and me. They had hopes and dreams. Families. And what are they now? Just names written on a stone."

It was Adams' turn to shudder. "You think too much." He grumbled, looking around apprehensively. "Nothing's been disturbed here." He said, "Let's go."

It was Evan's turn to grin. "You _do_ believe in ghosts, then, do you?"

Adams rolled his eyes. "No, but all the same I've heard enough of Smith's ghost stories to make a braver man think twice before setting foot in a graveyard after dark."

Evans chuckled at that. "So you wouldn't go into a graveyard after dark." He said. "Would you follow Lestrade into one?"

"I'd be more afraid not to." Adams admitted. "Lestrade has no patience for men who don't follow orders, you know that as well as I do." The two were quiet as they made their way across the graveyard.

"Do you think Lestrade believes in ghosts?" Evans asked a moment later.

"Do you think it matters?" Adams retorted. "I reckon he'd arrest even a ghost if he caught one breaking the law." He and Evans both laughed, but Evans grew thoughtful.

"I know Jones doesn't." He said slowly, "Hopkins does, and Bradstreet will admit that odd things happen under a full moon." He frowned, considering the matter. "I doubt Gregson does."

"You are giving this way too much consideration." Adams said, shaking his head. "Especially since it doesn't matter. Not one of the Inspectors, nor Superintendent Hopkins for that matter, would let fear of ghosts, goblins, witches, or anything less supernatural keep them from doing their jobs."

He paused for a moment before adding, "That being said, Lestrade probably doesn't allow himself to consider the existence of ghosts, and if you asked him he'd probably tell you he had enough to worry about without bothering with the stuff of stories and old wives tales."

Evans was quiet for a moment. "You're probably right about that." He conceded.

* * *

><p>No more packages turned up that night, nor did any appear the following morning. Smith and Adams had nothing of interest to report after staking out Jones' house, and Constables Evans could offer nothing after spending the night watching Hopkins'. Whoever was responsible, he seemed to have stopped for the time being.<p>

Holmes found himself involved in another case, and in the absence of anything more to work with, Watson accepted the invitation to go with him. The two would be out of London for the next three days.

A burglary Bradstreet had been dealing with had turned into a rash of burglaries, and Jones had quite unintentionally found himself in the middle of a double homicide that left him in a fouler temper than had been witnessed in the man for years.

Gregson's paperwork caught up with him again and he disappeared into the abyss that was his office, albeit with great reluctance and an excessive amount of cursing.

Lestrade was torn; he did not care to find more dismembered body parts, but he also currently had nothing to work with. There was nothing else he could do right now.

He knew this had not been the work of grave robbers. He had known it before Adams and Evans had found nothing during their graveyard investigation.

He had not been able to find the man Evan had described as dropping off that first package. There were too many of such men in London, and none of them were keen to stick around when the police were about. Holmes could probably have found the man, but Lestrade had so far failed.

He briefly considered looking into the possibility that these body parts had been taken from hospitals, but discarded it. Something like that would have been reported by now. The police, and the newspapers, would have heard of it.

That aside, those sorts of questions were not the kind easily asked without causing alarm or suspicion. Anyone he spoke to would have his own questions in turn, questions Lestrade would not care to answer.

He tried to drag his thoughts back to his dinner, and his wife, and his daughters. All three of the women in the family were watching him, and waiting. He tried to backtrack and recall what it was that he had been asked so he could give them the answer they were waiting for.

"I'm sorry." He finally said, and his youngest giggled while her older sister rolled her eyes and sighed. Elisabeth's eyes searched his own eyes and his face, and she relaxed.

No, he was not injured, nor was he ill.

"Thomas has invited us all to dinner." Amy repeated, less exasperated than she pretended. "His parents will be there too. He wants to get everyone together."

"When?" Lestrade asked, refusing to let himself feel apprehensive just yet. There would be plenty of time for that later.

"Friday." His daughter replied apologetically. "I know you like to go out with the other Inspectors..."

"I'll survive." Lestrade told her solemnly, eliciting another fit of giggles from Olivia.

"Will they?" She piped up. Her father fixed her with a severe look that melted almost instantly.

He looked over at his wife. "Starting to get a bit cheeky, isn't she?" He asked. Elisabeth responded with an exaggerated sigh.

"She's been incorrigible all week." The woman declared.

Lestrade looked back over at his daughter. "We may have to do something about that." He teased.

"Clear the table, girls." Elisabeth said, getting up. "Your father and I will wash up."

"Yes, Ma." The girls chorused.

"Is everything all right?" Elisabeth asked her husband as they started on the dishes.

Her husband did not answer right away. "What was that?" He asked, distractedly. "Sorry, love."

She smiled fondly at her husband. "Is everything all right?" She asked again.

He sighed and shook his head. "It's nothing, just a bad case that I'm nowhere near solving." He looked toward the door and lowered his voice. "This dinner with that young man's family-"

"Thomas." Elisabeth supplied, lowering her voice as well.

"Addison. I know." The man raised an eyebrow. His wife returned the gesture with a grin.

"His parents want to meet hers." She told him. "Nothing unusual about that. Nothing to worry about." She kissed him on the cheek.

* * *

><p>"Where's Lestrade?" Bradstreet asked, looking around.<p>

"Family affairs." Gregson replied. "And Hopkins is buried in paperwork. It's just the three of us tonight."

"That bother you?" Jones asked. Bradstreet shrugged.

"Nope." He said, taking a drink of his beer. Then he looked at Gregson. "How is it you always know Lestrade's business?" He asked.

Jones snorted. Gregson acted as if he had not heard.

"Catch your burglar?" He asked. Bradstreet shook his head.

"Not yet." He admitted. "Get caught up on your paperwork?" He returned, and Gregson mumbled something unintelligible into his drink.

"That's a no." Jones laughed. He looked up; the smile abruptly disappeared and his brow furrowed, either in concern or confusion. Gregson and Bradstreet turned to see what he was looking at.

Their eyes were drawn to a petite young woman moving through the tavern. Her creamy white skin contrasted elegantly with the simple dark blue dress she wore, but the effect was somewhat diminished by a wild mass of red hair that did its best to escape the clip that was only partially successful in holding it back.

Stormy grey-green eyes rested on Jones, and the woman altered her course. She moved through the crowd as if unaware of it, and while heads turned to watch her pass, something seemed to keep anyone from so much as speaking to her.

Jones stood as she reached the table. "What are you doing here, Abigail?" He asked, his words sharper than he intended.

"It's your mother." The woman said. "She's at the house."

"Our house?" Jones asked. Abigail nodded.

"She showed up and demanded to see you. She wouldn't calm down until I said I'd come get you." Concern shone plainly in her eyes as she spoke. "I've never seen her like this, Athelney. Something's got her worked up, and to be honest, it's a little bit frightening."

Jones sighed and turned to look at the other two Inspectors. "I'll see you at work." He said, excusing himself. "Come on, Abigail."

He took the woman by the arm and led her out of the tavern. Gregson and Bradstreet watched them leave.

"Abigail Jones." Gregson clarified. "His wife."

"She's pretty." Bradstreet noted.

"She's got a temper, too." Gregson warned. "Not someone you want to cross."

Bradstreet resisted the urge to smile, but cast a sideways glance at the other man. "Is that something you know from experience?" He asked.

"No, but Lestrade does." Gregson replied with a half-chuckle, though he refused to say any more on the matter.

Bradstreet went back to his beer.

Gregson was like that; he and Lestrade frequently-well, constantly, actually-rubbed each other the wrong way, and there seemed to be no end to Gregson's supply of amusing and potentially humiliating stories about Lestrade, but in the other Inspector's absence he rarely did more than hint at them or, at best, leave them half divulged.

* * *

><p>Everyone looked up as a knock sounded at the door. Elisabeth's eyes shot toward her husband; the sudden glint in his eyes suggested that he recognized the knock; however, he seemed as surprised by the interruption as anyone else at the table.<p>

Amy and Olivia exchanged a glance that suggested that they at least had their suspicions as to who was at the door, and Amy's eyes darted from her sister's to Thomas' in less than a second and she offered him an apologetic smile as he stood.

"I'll get it." He told his parents; Benedict Addison nodded and the young man excused himself. The older Mr. Addison smiled reassuringly at his wife and turned back to Lestrade.

"I do apologize," he said quickly, "I have no idea who that could be. We don't usually get unannounced guests."

Lestrade managed a small, tight smile. It vanished as second later as the younger Addison returned, somewhat perplexed and with company.

"Jones," Lestrade was frowning as he stood and greeted the other man. The mood the Inspector had been in this week was almost pleasant in comparison to the fury that was all but blazing in his eyes. Jones looked ready to kill someone.

"There's been another delivery." Jones, angry as he was, still had the presence of mind to watch what he said in front of those who were not already involved. Lestrade was, however, at a loss to understand why another 'delivery' had caused this amount of fury in the other man.

He _did _know that Jones would not have hunted him down tonight if it were not absolutely necessary. Lestrade looked first to his wife and saw the understanding in her eyes, then to his oldest daughter, who nodded.

He sighed and turned back to the older Mr. Addison. "I'm sorry," he said, "I've been working a case, and something's come up that can't wait."

Thomas, the younger Addison, recovered first. "Of course," he said smoothly, giving away no sign of offense. "I'm glad you could make it, even if it was only for a short while." He smiled. "Maybe next time we will have better luck."

Lestrade refused to worry about 'next time' and nodded before turning back to Jones. "Let's go."

Thomas Addison escorted the two men out. The table was still quiet when he returned. He smiled, and in an effort to relieve some of the tension turned to Amy. "Well, we almost made it through dinner."

Mrs. Lestrade laughed gently at that, "He's been a bit distracted lately." She told him apologetically. "He hasn't said much about the case, but it's been weighing heavily on his mind."

"I'm sure whatever called him away is important." Thomas replied easily. For his parents' benefit he added, "Mr. Lestrade works for Scotland Yard. I believe I mentioned to you that he was an Inspector."

"_Timothy's_ Inspector Lestrade?" Benedict Addison looked up at that, both eyebrows raised, and Thomas laughed.

"The very same." Thomas confirmed. "Now that you've met him, what do you think of him?"

"He's a bit smaller than I expected." His father replied, and his wife shot him a reproving glare even as Mrs. Lestrade smiled and her youngest giggled. "The way Timothy spoke, I imagined someone a little more intimidating." He admitted, somewhat sheepishly now.

"You've never seen him angry." Amy offered with a smile. "Neither Inspector Gregson nor Inspector Bradstreet will cross him when he's angry, and they're both at least a good six feet tall and built like brick walls to boot."

* * *

><p>"Mum found another cigar box on her front porch." Jones spat out the explanation before Lestrade could ask. "She opened it to find it full of severed ears. Five of them." He turned to glare at Lestrade as if it were <em>his<em> fault. "She's at the house now, and in such a state it's lucky she came straight to me instead of calling for the nearest Constable; it'd be easy enough to think she had something to do with it."

Lestrade did not answer right away, but when he did, it was hesitantly. Jones was every bit as private with his personal life as Lestrade himself, and Lestrade consequently felt less sure of himself than usual when he had to cross that unspoken line with the other man.

"Your mother, she's-er-older, isn't she?" He asked, fully aware that neither of them could be considered all that young, not anymore.

Jones shot him a glare. "She's old enough that she doesn't need the shock of finding dismembered body parts on her front porch." He retorted.

Lestrade considered this as they walked-where they were going he was not exactly sure, but he knew where Jones lived, and they were not headed there. "Whoever's doing this knows enough about you to figure out where your mother lives." He said aloud, and almost immediately wished he had not.

"And I'm just lucky that whoever it is is content just to scare her half to death instead of trying to inflict actual bodily harm on her, too, is that it?" Jones demanded.

Lestrade did not answer the other Inspector's question. He had never known Jones to get this worked up on anyone's behalf before, not even his wife's-in fact he usually seemed to enjoy letting his wife handle herself-but he had seen the man in a temper enough times over the years to know when to let the man growl.

"She wasn't hurt, then?" He asked instead.

"No." Jones snapped, scowling. "She never heard anyone at the door, though she's starting to get a bit deaf, but when she stepped out to go on her evening walk to the park she found the box. Left it on her porch and came straight to the house."

Lestrade stifled a groan. "She left it on the porch?" He asked, receiving another glare for his trouble.

"Would you rather she'd brought it along to the house with her?" Jones demanded.

Again, Lestrade thought it wiser not to answer. Silence fell between the two men and lasted until they reached what Lestrade guessed must be the home of Jones' mother.

He was not at all pleased to find that the box, unwrapped and abandoned on the porch, had attracted the notice of the Constable responsible for the beat; the man was eying the barely closed container warily, causing Lestrade to wonder if he had heard anything in spite of their best efforts at keeping the matter quiet.

A second later Lestrade recalled the both the Constable and where he had begun his career on the force. It was not reassuring.

Constable Pearson had cut his teeth on one of the sections of the city where most of the Yard-with the possible exception of Hopkins- feared to tread. He had not only survived his first assignment, he had thrived under such inhospitable conditions. He had also developed a knack for spotting trouble.

He was intelligent too-enough so that Gregson had both taken notice of his abilities and taken him under his wing, a rare occurrence at Scotland Yard. Gregson rarely had the time or patience to deal with Rookies.

Pearson had also, unfortunately, become all too aware of Gregson's opinion of him. It made dealing with the Constable difficult for Lestrade, not least because the Constable had developed Gregson's knack for insulting Lestrade's intelligence without actually saying or doing anything he could positively identify. He knew, every time he crossed paths with the younger man, that he had been insulted, but he could never pinpoint exactly how.

"Constable!" Lestrade called out; the man in question straightened up and waited for the two Inspectors walking toward him.

"Someone left a cigar box on the front porch, open and all, Inspectors." Pearson offered by way of explanation. "Struck me as odd, so I stopped."

If it had been Gregson, Lestrade would have been certain the other knew what was in the box. As it was-

"We'll take care of it from here, Constable." Lestrade assured him.

Pearson looked Lestrade over before turning his attention back to the box. "Someone inform the Yard of this already, Inspectors?" He asked. "I should have heard something-"

Jones cut him off sharply. "Inspector Lestrade said we'd take care of it, _Constable."_ He was in no mood for this today. "Start walking."

Pearson's eyes flashed, but he nodded. "Yes, sir." He said, saluting stiffly before he turned and continued on his way.

"Why do you do that?" Jones demanded, turning to Lestrade. "It's not because he's smarter than you. You've no problem putting Holmes or Gregson in their place when you think they need it."

Lestrade ignored him in favor of picking up the box and looking inside. Jones waited until the Inspector had finished his inspection of its gory contents before continuing.

"Tell me it's not because Gregson favors him." He pressed, and Lestrade rolled his eyes as he closed the box. "So what is it? Any other Constable you would have put in his place years ago."

Lestrade did not look up from the cigar box. "Leave it alone." He grumbled.

Jones left it alone. Action and the temporary distraction had helped him cool down and he was thinking a little more clearly now. "You'll want to speak with Mum." He predicted. Lestrade nodded.

"We need to get this back to the Yard first." He said, gesturing with the box. Its contents shifted inside, and both men wished he had simply held it still. "I'd also like to examine the area thoroughly before she comes home."

"She'll be staying with me for the time being." Jones supplied. "I'll take the box. You can look around and meet me back home."

Lestrade nodded again, and set himself to examining the porch, the door, even the front walk in hopes of learning something about the person responsible for leaving them such gruesome "gifts."

He would have wished for Holmes' seeming ability to read even rock for signs that someone had been there who should not have been, but there was little sense in the action. There was no point in wishing for what would never be.

The porch had been swept recently, though some dirt had gathered since-whether from Jones or Lestrade or Pearson or the person who had left the box behind Lestrade could not say.

The walk was even less informative. Too many people had passed by during the course of the day, and Lestrade could hardly read on the hard path the steps of even one man passing by.

He sighed and circled the house anyway to make certain it was safe. The back door was locked and the windows were secure. Nothing was out of place.

Lestrade reminded himself that he was only doing his job and stepped in through the front door-Jones' mother had left it unlocked. The house seemed to be in order, though Lestrade was not sure what he had expected to find. Certainly there was no reason to expect the man who had left the gruesome package to be sitting in the front room.

He stepped back outside, closing the door behind him, and wondered how much longer this could go on.

He had to do something, and soon.

* * *

><p>"Mum, this is Inspector Lestrade." The woman addressed looked up; her eyes seemed to take in every detail as she sized Lestrade up, judging whether he was fit for the task set before him.<p>

It was one of the few times that he actually allowed himself to wonder what the other person saw when they looked at him; the line of thought was not one with which he was comfortable.

Her hair was grey, but her eyes were still bright and there was life yet in her old body. She sat straight and proud; her will was steel and unyielding.

Lestrade suddenly felt disadvantaged, but he was used to that. It was not an uncommon situation for him, considering the people he frequently worked with. "I need you to answer a few questions, if you are able." He found himself saying.

The woman's brow furrowed, and she looked over at her son. "If I am able?" She echoed, disbelief and some indignation coloring her words.

Jones met the woman's demanding gaze without blinking. "He means well, Mum." He told her sternly.

Lestrade ignored the exchange and continued. "You found the package on your front porch when you stepped out for your evening walk?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. "Package?" She demanded sharply. "What I found was a box of bloody ears that had been removed from their owners, boy."

Most people had stopped calling Lestrade boy a long time ago. "Did you go anywhere else today?" He asked.

"Where would I go?" She replied sharply, folding wrinkled hands into her lap. A quick glance in her son's direction suggested that there had been some related argument in the past.

"No visitors?" Lestrade asked, and Jones' mother fixed her grown son with another look before shaking her head.

"I don't get any visitors other than Athelney." She said. The pointed looks from her and the exasperation that kept flashing across her son's face was making Lestrade uncomfortable, but he tried to at least pretend he had not noticed any of it and kept going.

"You didn't hear anything unusual today? Nothing out of the ordinary?"

The woman fixed him with a look. She stood and turned to her son. "_This_ is the best the Yard has to offer?" She demanded incredulously, and Jones flushed while Lestrade's jaw dropped.

Surely not.

"Sit down and answer the questions, Mum." Jones snapped, refusing to meet those dark eyes. "He's being thorough. It's possible you noticed something important without realizing it."

The woman sat down, and her eyes found Lestrade's expectantly. "Get on with it, then." She grumbled, but something in her appraisal of him had changed.

His jaw clicked shut, and he pushed aside his confusion and focused on his job.

"You didn't hear anything unusual today?" He asked again. "Nothing out of the ordinary?"

"Tea?" Abigail Jones asked Lestrade as he excused himself from interviewing Jones' mother. He did not bother to answer-it was not, after all a request, but followed her into the kitchen. She waved him to a seat and he accepted it as she turned her attention to pouring out a cup of tea.

"Athelney is fixing the other bedroom for her." She told him. "I've never seen him so upset."

Lestrade did not reply. He was not about to sit and speculate about Jones with his wife. Especially not in his own house.

Abigail set the cup of tea down in front of Lestrade. A second later she took the seat across from him, her own cup in hand. "She is, perhaps, the one person on this earth that he is completely, entirely, and unreservedly devoted to." She mused. "He loves her very much."

This was not a conversation Lestrade wanted to have. "She isn't the only one." He mumbled quietly from behind a cup of tea, and the woman laughed.

"I know that." She scolded the Inspector teasingly, and he felt his face warm. "Thank you for that, all the same." She knew it had not been an easy thing for him to say.

He focused his attention on his tea, and while someone who did not know the man well might believe that it really did take him that much effort just to drink a cup of tea, Abigail knew better.

She sighed. "The point is that this scared him. Now he'll never admit that to you or me, Giles," as ever, the man shifted uncomfortably at her use of his first name, "but I saw the look in his eyes, when he saw how upset she was, and he was almost frantic until he figured out she wasn't hurt. Then he grew angry."

She fell silent.

"I've never seen him so angry." Lestrade offered.

"Not many people have." Abigail replied. "But the fact that he went after you, Giles, that he went after you instead of dealing with it himself or send for someone else-someone closer-shows just how much it unsettled him."

"Does he know we talk about him like this?" Lestrade asked, instead of letting himself wonder why Jones would prefer him to anyone else at the Yard.

Abigail laughed. "Of course." She replied. Lestrade was not surprised, but he was also not comfortable with the thought. She sobered quickly. Leaning forward conspiratorially, as if they were small children and not both grown adults, she added in a near whisper. "And to answer the question you would rather die than ask, yes, Athelney did indeed tell his Mum you were the best Scotland Yard had to offer."

It was Lestrade's turn to laugh, though he stifled it almost immediately. "That isn't funny, Abigail." He told her.

Abigail did not press the issue. Neither her husband nor the unique man sitting before her would thank her for it. Instead she smiled.

"Hello, love." She called over Lestrade's head. Lestrade and Jones both considered being uncomfortable with her choice of greeting while Lestrade was here, but there was little point. Abigail would never be convinced that there was any need for propriety around the Inspector, no matter what her husband said or how many times she embarrassed Lestrade. "Did you get her settled?" She asked.

Jones grunted an affirmation, and Lestrade rose from his seat. It was time for him to leave. Abigail might enjoy having him in their home, but Jones himself certainly did not.

Not that he would ever say as much. Nor would the two men ever discuss why. It was simply not in the nature of either.

Jones let Lestrade see himself out.

"Gossiping?" He asked, only half teasing. His wife smiled up at him from her seat at the table.

"Of course." She chirped. Her husband was calmer now, thank God. He had more faith in Lestrade than he would ever admit. Or than he would likely ever realize.

He looked his wife over as he took the seat Lestrade had only just vacated. It stilled amazed him that his wife had taken such a liking to the man, never mind that he had actually responded in kind to a woman he had barely met when he had sometimes had trouble interacting (outside of the lines of business, that is) with people he had known for years.

"How bad is it, Athelney?" She asked, her smile fading. She was worried, and rightly so. None of the men at the Yard, as far as Jones knew, discussed their work with their wives. That did not mean they did not learn to tell when their men were troubled.

"Bad enough." He replied. It was not an answer, but at the same time it was enough of one for Abigail. "And when it gets out, he'll be the one to take the blame for it."

Abigail considered this, her lips pressed together. "Why?" She asked.

Jones sighed. "He'll get the blame because he's in charge. Because he chose to keep it quiet. He decided to keep quiet because the alternative was to risk causing a panic."

Bad enough, he had told her. She wondered yet again where her husband had picked up the habit of purposely understating how bad a situation could be.

* * *

><p>Lestrade wondered, as he headed home, if Hopkins would be next. He had to agree with Gregson-it no longer bothered him to agree with Gregson, at least, not in the privacy of his own mind-in doubting that Hopkins would be excused simply because of his recent promotion to Superintendent.<p>

He wondered if this would be limited to only the Inspectors, or if any of the Constables would get caught up in it as well. He hoped not. The experience of opening a box of severed body parts had been unpleasant enough for the involved Inspectors, and none of them were strangers to the strange and gruesome.

He did not know what to make of the fact that Jones' mother had been dragged into it. There had been a watch on Jones' house. Was that why whoever was sending them these bloody packages had sent his latest 'gift' to her? Would it stop there, or were all their families potentially involved? Bradstreet's wife and daughter had almost discovered the contents of the box left for him. What if his wife had opened it? What if they had been in the room when he had?

If the Inspectors _were_ the ones being targeted, would the deliveries stop now? If Hopkins were also a target, would they send him a package and be content? Or was there more coming?

A churning in his stomach told him that this was far from over, and that it was going to get much, much worse before it got better.


	6. Side Alley

_Author's note: Joy of joys! I thought all my stuff was on my laptop, which happens to be unavailable for the time being. As it turns out, this was already uploaded and in need of editing. I am so happy, and I hope this pleases you as well. _

_Also, I am starting a new story on my website, the address for which you may find in my profile. I plan to post a portion of the first chapter here on , but no more. Yes, my evil plan _is _to entice more people to visit my website._

_This however, leads to a problem. What part of the chapter should I post? The usual Friday night meeting? Lestrade agreeing to investigate a crime of which there is no proof? Hopkins facing off the army that is Lestrade's family? Lestrade's birthday party? I can't decide, so I leave that in your more than capable hands. Please advise me in this matter, and I will do my best to satisfy._

_Without further ado..._

* * *

><p>Lestrade sat at desk and pulled out a pencil and notebook. He placed them deliberately in front of him and allowed himself to bury his head in his hands. He closed his eyes, let out a breath he had not realized he was holding, and cleared his mind.<p>

He would start over. He would go back to the beginning.

He let out another breath. Then he picked up the pencil and began writing.

_One:_

_A cigar box wrapped in plain brown paper. _

_Left for Inspector Lestrade._

_Contents-Eleven fingers. __Two thumbs, three index fingers, two middle, three ring, and one pinky. Believe that five belong to men, four to women, and two to children. Gender of fingers belonging to children not known._

_Delivered to Scotland Yard by male. Mid-thirties. Dark hair in need of a trim. Unshaven. Blue eyes. Dark circles under the eyes. Hooked nose. Average height. Clothes worn, patched, and not very clean. Man himself not very clean. Uncertain, but not worried. Not in an unusual hurry to leave._

_Quoted as saying, "I have a package here for Mr. Lestrade. It's important he gets it today. Can you do that?"_

_Gloves with the fingers torn out. Fingers stained. Nails dirty. _

_Package left with Constable Evans._

_Two:_

_A cigar box wrapped in brown paper._

_Left for Inspector Bradstreet._

_Contents-Nine toes. Three great toes, two long toes, one middle, one ring, and two baby. Believe that three belong to men, one to a child-gender unknown. Remaining five unidentifiable._

_No witnesses to delivery. Found on front step of Inspector Bradstreet's home by wife and daughter._

_Three:_

Lestrade paused to rub his temple before continuing.

_A cigar box wrapped in brown paper._

_Left for Inspector Gregson__._

_Contents-One hand, cut off at the wrist. All fingers removed. Believe belonged to a male._

_No witnesses to delivery. Found on front step of Inspector Gregson__'s home by __Inspector._

_Four:_

_A cigar box wrapped in brown paper._

_Left for Inspector Jones__._

_Contents-Five ears. Believe four belong to adults, one to a child-all of undetermined gender._

_No witnesses to delivery. Found on front step of Inspector Jones' mothers' home by Inspector's mother._

Lestrade frowned at the sheet of paper. He stood and pinned it to his note board. There was no need to worry about it being seen by the wrong eyes; like most of his notes, it had been written in shorthand. Hopkins could have read it, as could his wife. It was possible Sherlock Holmes had figured his shorthand out by now.

If this were a message, someone was either taking his time at getting to the point or severely overestimating the Inspectors' ability to decipher it.

If it were the latter, it would be the first time someone had _overestimated_ Lestrade's intelligence. He was used to dealing with the opposite. He had no idea how to deal with someone thinking he was smarter than he actually was.

But then, if whoever sent it were counting on the Inspectors to get it, he was probably banking on Gregson's intelligence, not Lestrade's. He was a little surprised to find that he took comfort in that thought.

_The best the Yard has to offer._

The words came back to him, and he allowed himself a moment to consider them.

Lestrade was not the smartest man at the Yard, not by a long shot. He was hardly the strongest. He was not the biggest, or the fastest. He was a lot older than most of the men at the Yard. A lot older than most of the Inspectors, though they seemed reluctant to either recognize or admit as much.

He was on the bad side of the London papers more than he was on their good side. Those who met him for the first time-and recognized him from said papers-consequently thought little enough of him at first, and he rarely managed to change that opinion. True, he rarely let himself be bothered with what people thought of him, but even if he had cared he doubted he could do much to battle the many unflattering descriptions of him that the London papers had thrown about during his career.

He routinely terrified Constables by his mere presence-something else he had yet to figure out or worry about changing. Before Hopkins had taken the position, Lestrade used to be able to count on being dragged before a Superintendent (Marshall or Beals or whoever else, it had hardly mattered) at least once a week. He had 'disappeared' from the Yard on more than one occasion at the 'request' of certain high-ranking government officials.

He could not for the life of him figure out why Jones, or anyone else, for that matter, would call _him_ 'the best the Yard has to offer.'

This time, alone in his office with no one to overhear, he laughed outright at the complete and utter absurdity of the statement.

He looked down at the new page in his notebook. Again he picked up his pencil.

_Suspects:_

He set the pencil down. He had no suspects. None. Not one. They had absolutely no idea who was responsible for this mess.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

He pinned that page to his note board anyway and left to look for Evans.

* * *

><p>Constable Evans looked up as if on instinct. His eyebrows lifted as he recognized the small, dark haired man walking down the street toward him.<p>

"Inspector." He managed, somehow, not to make it sound like a question. He wondered if there had been another of those unholy deliveries. He could not suppress a shudder at the thought.

He did not ask what Inspector Lestrade needed. If he needed something, the other man would certainly tell him.

Without hesitation and without preamble, he would let Evans know exactly what he wanted. Lestrade did not waste time with small talk, and he only bothered asking how someone was if he were concerned about their health-the Inspector might regularly ignore his own body's needs, but he never failed to notice illness or injury in someone else.

This, among other oddities, had made the Inspector difficult to work with at first. Truth be told, Evans' first two weeks-weeks spent running around after the Inspector had been the two most miserable weeks of his life. He had been convinced that he had somehow gotten on the man's bad side on that first day and that the Inspector was doing everything he could to run the Rookie Constable off.

And if he had been convinced that the Inspector hated him, well, he could hardly say that the feeling had not been mutual. He had not liked this small, dark eyed, tight-mouthed, stubborn Inspector, not at all.

That had all changed the night he had met Hollis Knight.

Hollis Knight, dealer in all manner of unholy merchandise. From drugs to slaves to murder to anything else a man could imagine-Evans had seen him deal in torture that night, and the screams of that poor boy would haunt him to the end of his days.

Hollis Knight, who Lestrade had been after for almost a year when he had been saddled with the new Rookie. Lestrade had passed the case off to Inspector Gregson, who had taken it with the warning that he had other (less deadly) cases to work on at the time, and had actually left the case alone. Lestrade had not wanted Evans involved in any way.

Hollis Knight, who had somehow known Lestrade was after him. Hollis Knight, who had tried to use the Rookie Constable to get to the Inspector.

Hollis Knight, who had died from a bullet between the eyes. Lestrade had not blinked, had not hesitated. He had simply drawn and fired.

Evans rightly guessed that Hollis Knight had not been aware that Lestrade carried a gun. Evans had not known it either until that night.

Evans remembered the intensity of the man's dark eyes as they searched his, and the urgency in his voice as he asked if Evans were all right.

He remembered the man's feather light touch and murmured apologies and assurances as he searched for injuries-and there had been plenty.

He remembered the complete lack of judgment at the shriek that had escaped him at one point during the night, and at the sobs he could not stop as the night went on and the numbness wore off and the pain grew worse. There had been no contempt for his weakness. No disappointment. No scorn.

There had been kindness, and gentleness, and understanding. He had seen those, and had been at a loss to reconcile them with the man he had thought he had known.

And he had thought, when he had been able to return to the job, that perhaps between exhaustion and terror and fever he had only imagined it.

He had not imagined it. Inspector Lestrade had predictably not offered him a word of greeting but had instead looked him up and down with such intensity that Evans had imagined the man was examining his soul as well as his body. Finished, his eyes had found Evans'.

He had asked if Evans were all right, and Evans had nodded, and the Inspector had left it at that. There had never been any mention made of that night, or of the concern and yes, guilt, that had burned in the Inspector's eyes as he asked a question that coming from almost anyone else would have been woefully inadequate after what had happened.

Inspector Lestrade did not display much of himself for the world to see. With family and friends he might be a little more personal. With everyone else he was Inspector G. Lestrade of Scotland Yard. He was a Yarder. _The_ Yarder. He was not there to talk, or to laugh, or to have fun. He was there to get the job done.

Neither death nor danger would discourage the man from getting the job done. He was fully prepared to do whatever he had to to get the job done. If necessary, he would die in the line of duty.

He was equally willing to die for the men he worked with.

Inspector Lestrade waited and when Evans had reached him, fell into step beside the Constable. They walked in silence for several steps while Lestrade ordered his thoughts.

"Gregson already asked you about the man who dropped off the first package." Lestrade finally said.

It did not take Evans long to catch on. After all, what else _would_ be on the Inspector's mind right now?

"Yes, sir." A nod accompanied his reply.

"I want you to go over it again." Lestrade said.

Evans did not take the statement as a suggestion that he had not been detailed enough in his description, or that Gregson had somehow failed to satisfy Lestrade when he had relayed the result of his interrogation. He knew better. Lestrade was simply being thorough.

He nodded again, not exactly an appropriate way to answer your superior, but Lestrade either did not notice, or did not care.

Evans chewed his lip as he tried once again to draw the man in his mind. "He was taller than me, but not abnormally so." He remembered. "In his mid-thirties, I'd guess. He had dark hair. It was a bit long; he needed a trim. Hadn't shaved for a few days. He had blue eyes, but there were dark circles under them. He had a hooked nose. His clothes were worn and patched. Neither he nor them were very clean. He seemed kind of nervous, but more like he hadn't been inside the Yard much than like he was dropping off-you know."

Lestrade nodded. He _did_ know. Too well. "Nothing else?" Not a criticism. Just a question.

Evans let the quiet grow between them. He was trying to think, trying to remember. Had there been anything else?

Lestrade simply waited.

"Sorry," he began to shake his head. Then he stopped. "He called you _Mr._ Lestrade." He remembered that it had struck him as odd at the time, someone asking for a Mister instead of a Constable or Inspector. "He said it as if he had been coached on exactly what to say."

Like a schoolboy repeating his lines, or a Constable delivering a message from one Inspector to another. Even one word garbled or misquoted could mean serious trouble for the messenger, for there were times when one word could mean the difference between life and death.

Lestrade considered this. Then he excused himself.

* * *

><p>Lestrade spent the night in an alley staring at Hopkins' front door. Adams, he knew, was somewhere around back.<p>

Lestrade wondered if the watch on Jones' had been the reason a package had been left with his mother instead of him. He wondered if that possibility had occurred to Jones yet. He wondered how the man would react when it did.

Hopkins did not have any other family to get dragged into this affair.

The air was starting to change. Gradually it began to be less dark. Morning was coming. Lestrade ignored the stiffness in his body from standing still for so long. Someone had just turned the corner on to the street.

Dark blue suit. Small. Lean. Trying to look casual, but too tense to actually pull it off. A box tucked under one arm. Lestrade took a step further back into the alley and waited.

He stopped in front of Hopkins' front door, and Lestrade moved.

The other man paused, listening. Hurrying now, he stepped forward and set the box on the porch. Lestrade caught up with him as he straightened up.

It was still too dark for Lestrade to get a clear look at the man's face, or would have been even without the slap in the face.

A second later he was chasing after the man, who had not gotten quite the lead he had hoped for. Lestrade had certainly not been expecting to get slapped, but it had not been a particularly hard blow and he had recovered from his surprise quickly.

He turned the corner shortly after the man and followed him for about half a block before ducking after him down a dark alleyway-not, he realized as he did so, necessarily a smart move.

It took his eyes a second too long to adjust to the dark light. Something cold and hard slammed into his shoulder. He grunted and fell back into a crouch, eyes searching in the darkness.

He was ready for the next swing. He caught what might have been an iron bar, his hand and arm protesting, and jerked. His opponent could not hold on.

He saw the gleam of the blade and every muscle tensed. The other man inexplicably dove for the ground, toward his feet, instead of trying to gut him like most would have done.

Distracted by the strangeness of the movement itself and uncertain as its purpose, he did not realize where his opponent was aiming until it was too late.

He bit back a curse at the stabbing pain that coursed suddenly through his foot and stumbled. He nearly screamed as the knife twisted, and he was already falling as it was jerked back out. He tried to scramble back and away from his assailant as the man stooped and picked up the piece of metal that had been his earlier weapon.

He swung. His target was, oddly, the same foot he had just stabbed. Lestrade wondered about that briefly, but pain drove all curiosity out of his mind. He lurched forward, onto his feet-foot?-or started to. The next blow was aimed at his face.

It was enough to knock him on his back, but surprisingly not enough to knock him unconscious. He lay there, momentarily stunned. The other man swung again, once again aiming for his foot.

_What the devil?_

This time he nearly passed out as the hard metal made contact. He somehow managed not to give in to the blackness that was starting to creep in on the edges of his vision and tried to get up. All that happened was that he rolled over on his side.

He heard shouting, and instead of hitting him again, his assailant dropped his weapon and ran. Lestrade tried to get up and go after him, but for some reason it never happened.

Someone rolled him back onto his back. They were gripping his shoulders and shaking him. They were also shouting at him. Loudly. Angrily.

He blinked.

He was on his back.

Someone had grabbed his shoulder. No one was shaking him.

He was doing that on his own.

"Lestrade? Lestrade! Answer me! That's an order!" Hopkins sounded frightened.

He was frightened because Lestrade was not answering.

"What?" He managed not to slur his words too badly. His face hurt. He was dizzy.

He blinked again and took a deep breath. "He hit me in the face." He said, by way of explanation. He tried to sit up. Two pairs of hands helped him and remained pressed to his back and shoulders as if to steady him.

"Left something on your front porch." He told Hopkins.

"You shouldn't have chased him into a dark alley." Hopkins replied. "You could have been killed."

Lestrade considered this. Hopkins was right. He was lucky he had not been.

Hopkins sighed. "Help me get him up. We'll get him inside and then send for a doctor."

"Is Watson back yet?" It took Lestrade a second longer than it should have to place Adam's voice.

"Watson is not the only doctor in London." Hopkins grumbled. For some reason Lestrade wanted to argue with that statement, but he could not. It was true that Doctor Watson was not the only doctor in London.

"He's bleeding." Adams said instead of arguing. "Looks like someone stabbed him in the foot.

Lestrade wished he could focus, but he could not quite ignore the pain in his foot or his face, and Adams and Hopkins both refused to be ignored.

He nearly fell again as he tried to put weight on his left foot. The flash of white hot pain nearly blinded him. He fought back nausea and a scream.

He heard the strangled cry and realized he had not been entirely successful.

_Not again. Please not again._

Hopkins and Adams had half assisted, half dragged Lestrade back to Hopkins' and settled him gingerly on the couch before he realized the meaning behind the thought.

They were more worried about his face than his foot at first. Adams left for a doctor and Hopkins took to examining Lestrade's face and asking him all manner of ridiculous questions.

"Name?"

Hopkins knew his name.

"Lestrade. Giles."

"Rank?"

Hopkins knew that too.

"Inspector. Scotland Yard."

"Married? Children?"

Lestrade was starting to lose patience with the man, even if he _were_ his superior. "Wife. Elisabeth Lestrade, formerly Lindgren. Three children. Jackie, Amy, and Olivia."

He frowned at Hopkins, who was watching him with concern. It clicked.

He had a head injury. Hopkins was trying to keep him conscious and check his memory. He wondered how bad his face looked.

"I'm fine." He told the younger man. "It stunned me, is all." Hopkins did not look entirely convinced.

A metal bar to the face should probably have done more than just stun him. It should have at least knocked him out.

His assailant had not been very strong.

A doctor arrived then-not Watson-but Hopkins shot him a look of warning. "You can sit still for the doctor or I can call your wife down here instead." He threatened.

Lestrade wondered just when Hopkins had decided that Gregson was not the only person allowed to threaten Lestrade with his wife, but he kept quiet. The face, or head injury, rather, was not worth worrying her. His foot, on the other hand…

_Not again_.

His left foot was already crooked. What would one more break do? Nothing? Leave him lame? He already could not put any weight on it.

The doctor finished examining his face and fired a barrage of questions at him faster than he could think let alone answer. The doctor's expression grew grimmer and grimmer and Hopkins and Adams were trying not to follow his example when Lestrade finally tired of it.

"Enough!" He snapped at the doctor before turning to Hopkins. "I can't think that fast on a good day, when I haven't been up all night and chasing people and hit in the face with a piece of metal and you know it, Hopkins!" He calmed. "I told you I was fine. I never lost consciousness, not when he hit me in the face, not when he stabbed me in the foot. My memory's as good as it's ever been."

He regretted speaking immediately, as all three men looked down at his left foot. He jerked as the doctor knelt and his hand swept closer to the injury. The doctor looked up at Lestrade sternly. Lestrade glared right back at him.

He had almost kicked the man. Next time he might.

"Warn me next time, before you do anything." He told the doctor, although what he really wanted to do was crawl somewhere private so he could figure out how badly he was hurt _before_ other people also found out.

The doctor scowled at the warning. For Doctor Watson's sake, Lestrade refrained from scowling back at him.

"I just got beat up in an alley." He offered as an explanation. "I'm a little jumpy." He did not add that he had been injured there before-badly.

Every muscle in his body went rigid as the man slowly reached forward and began untying his shoe. The doctor shot him a concerned glance. "Breathe," he advised. Lestrade had not realized he was not. He slowly let the air escape from his lungs.

It caught in his throat as the doctor pulled his shoe off, and he choked. "Easy," the doctor murmured. It reminded Lestrade a bit of Doctor Watson. It was the only thing that kept him from bolting over the couch in spite of his injuries.

He ignored Hopkins and Adams-he could feel them both staring at him now-as the doctor gently began peeling his sock off his foot. Slowly. Carefully. The slowness was suddenly just as agonizing as the actual act of removing the sock.

Lestrade did not want to know, but he needed to.

The doctor's hands flew back as Lestrade leaned forward and jerked the sock off in a practiced motion. He dropped it on the floor and had successfully leaned back into the couch before the pain caught up with him. He gritted his teeth and reminded himself to breathe.

He was scared.

He had been here before. He had been lucky last time. He could not count on being so lucky again.

He opened his eyes. Still ignoring the other two Yarders, he focused his dark eyes on the doctor's green ones.

He found in them genuine concern. It was enough to keep him here a little longer.

Lestrade watched as the doctor examined his foot. He swallowed back a scream and a considerable amount of profanity as the man carefully, gently-but not gently enough-felt along the worst of the bruises, looking for what Lestrade most feared he would find.

The doctor stopped, and looked up at him in sudden understanding. "You've been injured before."

If Hopkins and Adams did not catch the full meaning of the statement right away, Lestrade knew exactly what the man was saying.

"I was lucky to walk again." He said wearily. There was little point in resisting now. "It didn't heal straight."

He could no longer avoid Hopkins' eyes as the doctor went back to work. "I was on a case." He said shortly. "A raid went bad and I ended up being held as a hostage. They broke my foot once or twice or…" he trailed off briefly, but Hopkins was still waiting. "I think I lost track around four. It was hard, with everything else going on at the time. They didn't know if it would heal right."

He was relieved not to see pity, only understanding. They all had their scars and nightmares and demons. It was just part of the job. Part of life.

"Well, it isn't broken this time." The doctor spoke up. He had stopped probing and was now stitching up the place where Lestrade had been stabbed. "Badly bruised, and you've got a lovely knife wound there, but not broken." He regarded Lestrade solemnly. "Stay off it, though. Let heal. You don't want to lose your foot just because you were too stubborn to stay off it. Watch out for infection." He added, his brows furrowed; the risk of infection worried him.

Hopkins nodded and saw the doctor out. Lestrade remained where he was on the couch. Adams also was still, and he was quiet. Worried, but quiet.

Hopkins returned with a box under his arm. "Now listen," he said, rudely pointing a finger at Lestrade before the Inspector could even open his mouth, "you are going home. To bed. You are not going to work, and you are not going to run around. I am not about to stand by and let you destroy yourself, and if it means I have to cuff you and drag you home myself I will."

He finished, and waited. Lestrade just looked at him.

Then he smiled. If it was supposed to reassure Hopkins, it did not. When he finally spoke, however, his words did.

"You don't have to cuff me and drag me anywhere." Lestrade said. "I'm not stupid. I'm not about to risk my foot, let alone my job, just to prove something."

He shifted uneasily, and even that small bit of movement was enough to cause him pain. "I thought for sure it was broken all over again." He admitted quietly. "The thought terrified me. I'm not about to take any chances, Hopkins."

The two stood in uncertain silence for a moment. Then Hopkins moved and broke the mood. He offered the box he had been holding to Lestrade. He was almost completely certain that Lestrade would not take it and bolt out the door.

Lestrade took the box with a tenderness that was almost reverential. Or, Hopkins realized a second later, he did not want to disturb the contents of the box any more than he had to. Lestrade held it in one position as he unwrapped it. He set aside the brown wrapping paper and stared at the box.

Once again he did not want to know, and once again he needed to.

He opened the box and looked inside. What little color had been left after his ordeals in first the alley and then with the doctor drained from his face. His hands twitched, and he dropped the box.

Hopkins caught it. Barely. He stared and wished he had let it drop.

Inside the box, cut off at the ankle, toes also severed, was a small foot.

A child's foot.

Adams turned green and excused himself, but left the door open as he retreated. The sounds of retching could be heard plainly from the sitting room.

Hopkins thought nothing less of him for it. Lestrade did not seem to have recovered.

Hopkins closed the box and reluctantly set it on the table beside the lamp. He wagered that the night had been harder on Lestrade than he had let on and that he would probably need a minute-or four-more than usual. He stood and went to see to Adams.

* * *

><p><em>Five:<em>

_A cigar box wrapped in plain brown paper. _

_Left for Superintendent Hopkins-Inspector Hopkins until recently__._

_Contents-One right foot. Cut off at ankle. Toes also cut off. Believe belonged to a child._

_Delivered to home of Superintendent Hopkins by male. Less than average height. Slight build. Less than average strength._

_Seen and pursued by Inspector Lestrade. Turned and fought Inspector Lestrade. Inspector received injuries to shoulder, face and left foot from knife and possible metal bar. Assailant fled when Superintendent Hopkins and Constable Adams arrived on scene._

_Suspects:_

_Male. Young. Less than average height. Slight build. Less than average strength. Armed and dangerous._

_Injuries:_

_Blow to right shoulder-bruising-possible metal bar_

_Stab wound to left foot-bleeding, infection,-knife-knife twisted while in wound_

_Blow to face-bruising, temporary shock-possible metal bar_

_Repeated blows to left foot-bruising-possible metal bar_

Lestrade was not sure why he had written the last out. It seemed important. He just had not figured out how or why yet. He would pin it up with the others. After all, no one else could read it but Elisabeth and Hopkins.

He sighed and shifted uncomfortably on the couch. He wanted to be up. He wanted to be moving. He wanted to be out there.

He also knew better.

He looked up as his older daughter entered the room and managed not to sigh a second time. He knew that look.

Amy studied him solemnly, hands clasped behind her back. "Glad to see you're feeling better." She said, and could not keep the mischief out of her voice. "I thought, seeing as you were on the mend, that some company might distract you. Mom said I should make sure you're up to it, though."

Company _would_ be a distraction, and Lestrade could use a distraction, but he was wary. "Who?" He asked.

"Nobody special." Amy replied unconvincingly. "Just…maybe…I thought…"

Lestrade groaned. "Amy…" He warned, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He was wary, but he was also her Da.

"Thomas. And his parents." Amy blurted, and a slight flush colored her cheeks.

Lestrade waved his hand dismissively. His wife had not sent Amy to ask for permission so much as see if he could handle company right now.

Amy took the gesture for the agreement that it was and grinned. "Thank you!" She almost shrieked, and Lestrade chuckled in spite of everything. A second later she collected herself.

"Can I get you anything?" She asked. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"An escape plan?" He suggested, and she snorted, not a particularly lady-like gesture, but she had learned _that_ from her mother, not him.

Ma would kill us both." She informed him solemnly.


	7. Liars and Thieves

_Author's note: Sorry guys. I was at Rock Camp last week, and barely had time to sleep, let alone post, and this week was a piano master class and a conducting workshop at school, so between those and recovering from Rock Camp, I haven't really done much here._

_I am going to try to make myself update weekly (I'll be less likely to forget if it's a scheduled thing). So once a week, probably Fridays-with the exception of this week (today being Thursday). There may not be anything next week, though, as I will be back at our second week of Rock Camp-or I might post late-Saturday or Sunday. We'll see how this goes.  
><em>

_And now, chapter seven..._

* * *

><p>Gregson scowled at the fifth box as if he wanted nothing to do with it. Hopkins could hardly blame him.<p>

"Lestrade will be down for at least a week." The Superintendent pointed out.

"He should be down longer." Gregson snapped, turning his scowl on Hopkins. "Why the devil would someone stab him in the foot when they could stab him in the face?" He demanded.

"They _hit_ him in the face." Hopkins pointed out in what he thought was a reasonable tone of voice. "He was lucky there. He never even lost consciousness."

"It stunned him." Gregson was thinking aloud. "And they went after his foot."

Hopkins shook his head as the revelation hit him. "And all he could do was lay there and watch."

"And try not to scream." Gregson muttered absently. "Or pass out." He ran a hand through his hair, a habit more characteristic of Lestrade himself than the fair haired man standing in front of Hopkins' desk.

The thought of Lestrade screaming made Hopkins' blood run cold. So did the thought of what might have happened if Adams had not pounded down his door insisting that he had heard something out front and that it was probably trouble. If they had not stumbled upon Lestrade when they did...

"Why go for his foot though?" Gregson demanded. The news of Lestrade's injury had put him in a foul mood. He seemed to almost have taken the man's injury personally. Hopkins wondered once again if he were only imagining that the two men had grown more protective of each other over the years. Sherlock Holmes' description of the rivalry between the two men-passed on by Watson through _A Study in Scarlet-_was hardly accurate. Not anymore.

"So he couldn't chase him, I guess." Hopkins found himself answering. He wondered idly if Gregson were fixating on Lestrade's attack rather than the fifth 'delivery' on purpose.

Gregson shook his head. "If I had him laid out on his back, I'd just stab him in the chest, or through the eye, if I were worried about whatever luck it is that seems to keep him alive."

Hopkins flinched at the cold observation. That was simply the way Gregson worked, but it did not mean the younger man had to like it. "Maybe he was more interested in causing pain than killing him?" He tried.

Gregson considered this. "There are a lot worse places to stab someone-or hit them, if we're talking about causing pain."

Hopkins was once again reminded that he never wanted to get into a fight with the other man. "Can you not just be thankful he's alive and _not_ lame and leave it at that? Or would you rather that were the case? " He snapped angrily, and regretted the question almost instantly as Gregson turned and fixed him with a glare.

"We don't like each other." Gregson informed Hopkins coolly. "That doesn't mean I want him dead. Or _lame._" The Inspector's normally cold eyes took on a haunted quality as he uttered the last. "He's a good man, and a good police man, and one of the few people I know that I'd trust with my life." He made as if to leave, but turned and grabbed the newest cigar box as if as an afterthought.

"And if you ever repeat that to anyone I'll deny it." He called over his shoulder as he stormed out of the Superintendent's office.

Hopkins stood staring at the empty door for several minutes after the man left. Finally, he stirred.

"Sorry," he murmured softly, "he's got me worried too."

* * *

><p>Gregson cursed the fact that Watson was not back yet as he set the box down on the table usually reserved for the dead. He had no desire to examine the contents of the box himself.<p>

He wondered idly that Lestrade had not done so already, in spite of his injuries. He had almost been expecting a sheet of that tiny, precise-if nearly illegible-shorthand to accompany the box, if not a scrawled translation done by Hopkins as well.

He opened the box and realized at once why Lestrade would not already have examined it.

He stared the foot-a child's foot-in horror for several seconds before reminding himself that he had a job to do. He wondered, as he examined the skin for signs of bruising (there were none) how long it had taken Lestrade to recover from _that_.

The blow to the face would have left the man disoriented and slow. The attacks on his foot would have left him terrified-Gregson knew that terror would hardly have been an exaggeration and saw no shame in it, not after what the man had gone through the first time-of being left lame. Opening the cigar to discover a symbol of the nightmare he was already bracing himself for would have been a blow from which the man would have taken a while to recover. The fact that it had once belonged to a child would have made matters even worse.

The thought occurred to him that the connection between Lestrade's injury and the most recent package they had received might not be entirely coincidental.

The cuts severing the toes, and the foot itself from the ankle, were as clean and precise as the cuts on everything else they had received. There were no trembling hands involved in this, and no hesitation either. Somebody knew exactly what he was doing, and it was all being done without doubt or remorse.

But why?

Gregson was not known for being overly sympathetic, not at Scotland Yard. He was known for being cold and calculating. For being completely untouched by the death and suffering the Yarders were often forced to witness.

If some of it happened to be an act, not all of it was. It was true that Gregson did not get as worked up as Lestrade might over an injustice. It was true that he did not have the same love for his fellow man as Bradstreet. Unlike Jones, he did not take it personally when some criminal hurt some innocent who was unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Whatever other 'emotional flaws' he seemed to have, and however he might encourage people to believe that he could stand in the same room as five boxes of dismembered appendages that had once belonged to people who once had been, if not healthy and happy, then at least whole and not be affected by it, Inspector Gregson would never understand why, or even how, someone could do something like this to a child.

It was one of the few things he did understand about Lestrade, his horror and fury at the thought that someone-anyone-could be so cruel as to harm a child. It was one of the few things the two men could agree on. It might have been the only understanding, the only agreement, the two would ever admit to.

He was not exactly pleased to put the severed member away, but he was certainly relieved.

* * *

><p>Gregson's reasons for stopping by Lestrade's that evening were twofold. He needed Lestrade's notes on the case. He was also worried about how the man was dealing with the attack.<p>

Anything else, anywhere else, Gregson would not have been worried. As long as the man was in no danger of dying, he probably would not have cared.

Mrs. Lestrade answered at the door looking for a fight. She took one look at Gregson and relaxed. "I was afraid it was someone wanting him to come in." She admitted, stepping back and gesturing for the Inspector to follow.

"You don't need to worry," Gregson assured her, "the Superintendent wouldn't allow it. Your husband had him scared when they found him in that alley."

Mrs. Lestrade did not flinch from the topic. Not all Yarders' wives were like that, but a few found more peace in knowing the truth of what had happened to their husbands. Mrs. Lestrade was one of these few.

"_He_ was scared." Mrs. Lestrade took his hat and coat and hung them up before leading him toward the sitting room. "I'll admit I was terrified when they brought him home."

Gregson paused in the hallway. Mrs. Lestrade turned and waited. "How is he, really?" Gregson asked. It was a vague question, especially for him, but it was so by design.

Mrs. Lestrade knew exactly what he was asking. "He is resigned to waiting until the stitching comes out to worry about how the injury is going to affect his walking. The doctor assured him that _if_ he stays off it and lets it heal, it shouldn't be a problem."

"He _is_ staying off it?" Gregson could not imagine that even Lestrade would be stubborn or stupid enough not to heed the doctor's instructions.

Mrs. Lestrade smiled. "Of course." She scolded him gently for suggesting otherwise. They continued walking.

Gregson followed her into the sitting room. Lestrade was dozing on the couch. He was sweating; there had been some infection, then, and he had at least a slight fever.

There were bruises across his face. Gregson wondered that the man had not been knocked out by the blow. Truthfully, the man should have been killed or at least brain-damaged.

His foot was bandaged and propped up on the couch beside the convalescing Inspector.

"Giles," Mrs. Lestrade spoke softly, and her husband stirred, "you have a visitor."

"Don't get too excited," Gregson warned. Lestrade scowled, and Gregson offered him a smirk that was guaranteed to irritate the little man.

"I can't come in." Lestrade said it mildly, but Gregson did not miss the sudden flash of worry in his dark eyes.

"I know that." He retorted. Lestrade flinched; the words had come out harsher than he had intended. "I know," he softened his tone, "Hopkins has temporarily passed your case on to me." Lestrade did not have to ask _which _case. "I came to ask for your notes on it."

Lestrade shook his head and waved for Gregson to have a seat. "It's all in shorthand, and it's all on my note board." He nodded toward his desk. Gregson could see a few sheets of paper resting on top. "Except for those. They're from the last delivery."

Gregson did not ask if they were also in shorthand. They were.

He sighed and resigned himself to spending the evening with Lestrade. "What can you tell me?" He asked.

Lestrade was quiet for several minutes, organizing the details of the case in his mind.

* * *

><p>The two Inspectors looked up as Elisabeth Lestrade entered the room with a tray. "Dinner." She explained, and fixed Gregson with a warning glance. "For both of you. Giles has been taking his meals in here, and I figure you two can continue working while you eat. Should I send a message home to your wife that you'll be eating here?"<p>

It was a formality. She was not offering Gregson a choice on whether or not he was staying for dinner. "Yes, please." He said, standing to relieve her of the tray of sandwiches. "Thank you, Mrs. Lestrade."

Her lips twitched. "Elisabeth," she corrected, "we've known each other long enough." Not long enough for Gregson. No amount of time would ever be long enough for him to be comfortable addressing Lestrade's wife by her first name.

There was enough food for three people. Gregson looked up and wondered how he had missed Watson.

The doctor stood just inside the doorway, studying the room before him. His gaze was concerned as it settled on Lestrade, and his eyes flickered from the man's foot to his face to rest on his eyes.

Lestrade met his gaze without flinching. "Welcome back," he said. "How was your trip?"

Watson chuckled. "Amusing." He replied, crossing the room and taking a seat on the other end of the couch, being careful not to jostle Lestrade's foot. "Holmes was propositioned."

Gregson choked, just in time, he set the tray of sandwiches down the table in front of the couch. Lestrade blinked. "Pardon?" The smaller man managed. Watson smiled.

"A young lady approached Holmes and informed him that she was his biggest fan. She claimed to have read all of his writings and all of his stories."

"Your stories, Doctor?" Lestrade inquired. Watson nodded.

"The same. She stopped fawning over him just long enough to catch a breath and asked if he would marry her." Watson's eyes were twinkling.

Lestrade started laughing. "Oh my," he chuckled, reaching for a sandwich. Watson took one as well, and the two men fell into a companionable silence.

Gregson was suddenly the odd man out. It did not bother him in the least. He also reached for a sandwich and considered whether the doctor had simply come to visit, or if he had heard about Lestrade's injury.

Remembering the way Watson had studied Lestrade when he had first arrived, Gregson was willing to bet it was the latter.

Finally Watson spoke. "What's this I hear about you getting stabbed while I was gone?" He demanded, fixing Lestrade with a piercing glare.

"It has been looked at." Lestrade countered uncomfortably. "By a doctor. I've been stuck on the couch since I got home."

Watson's gaze softened. "What happened?" He asked. "Elisabeth left a note telling me you'd been stabbed in the foot while on duty and asking if I would mind stopping by to offer a second opinion."

"She's worried." Lestrade said it softly.

"And yourself?" Watson asked. Lestrade shrugged, but it looked forced to Gregson.

"I'm staying off it. That's all I can really do." He hesitated. "There was another box left at Hopkins'. On the front porch. I was waiting in an alley and when he stopped to set the box down, I approached."

Lestrade frowned at the memory. "He slapped me and ran."

Watson spared a questioning glance in Gregson's direction. "He _slapped_ you?" Lestrade nodded. "And then ran. You followed, of course. Don't tell me you chased him into an alley."

Lestrade at least had the decency to look sheepish. "I figured that if he were going to shoot me he would have already done it instead of just running." He admitted. "I turned the corner and met with some sort of metal bar or pipe or something. Hit me in the shoulder. I turned and caught it the second time. He didn't have the strength to hold on to it."

"And that was when you found out he had a knife." Watson guessed.

"I wasn't expecting him to dive for my feet. I didn't realize what he was doing until it was too late." Lestrade's eyes drifted out of focus as the memory drew him in. "I tried to get up when he jerked the knife out, and that was when he found the metal bar again. I don't know why I didn't lose consciousness when he hit me in the face." He murmured absently.

Watson was watching Lestrade intently. He looked both horrified and enraged by what he was hearing. Gregson wondered just how much the Doctor's oath the man had taken would protect Lestrade's attacker if Watson were to get a hold of him.

"It stunned me." Lestrade continued after a second's pause. "All I could do was lie there stupidly and watch as he hit my foot."

Watson was suddenly even angrier. "He hit your already injured foot?" He demanded.

"A couple times." Even now, Lestrade sounded faintly nauseous at the thought.

"He might as well have been _trying_ to cripple you!" Watson exclaimed, and Lestrade flinched.

Gregson considered this.

"Is that possible?" He demanded. The two men turned and looked at him; they might well have forgotten the other Inspector was in the room with them. Gregson looked at Lestrade. "What if wasn't a coincidence? Is it possible that your attacker's focus on your _left_ foot was intentional?"

Lestrade paled. Watson frowned. "It would have to be someone who knew."

Gregson stared at him in disbelief. "Inspector?" Watson asked uncertainly.

"Everyone knows!" He exploded, amazed by the man's ignorance. He calmed himself. "Everyone knows that his left foot turns inward." He paused. "That is, everyone who's ever read your stories. It's not a huge stretch of imagination to think it might be a liability."

Watson looked stricken. "I-"

Lestrade recovered enough to roll his eyes. "Come off it, Gregson." He grumbled. To Watson, he said, "You wrote what you saw and heard. I know that because I know you. I also know that you've changed names of people and places to protect the innocent. Your stories are purposefully not completely accurate depictions of what happened. Only a lunatic would take every word in your stories as gospel truth."

Gregson was not finished. "Let's say, then, for argument's sake, that whoever attacked you was a lunatic. He _did_ slap you and run instead of just stab you. He also stabbed you in the _foot_ instead of somewhere deadlier."

"So someone familiar with Doctor Watson's stories?" Lestrade sounded doubtful.

"Someone very familiar, to have picked up that little bit of information." Watson had recovered enough to contribute. "A fan."

"A fanatic." Gregson shuddered.

"With what motivation?" Lestrade asked with a grimace as he tried to find a more comfortable way to sit in exactly the same position he was already sitting. Watson noticed; his eyes shot down to Lestrade's injured foot as if to ascertain that he had not done anything to it. Lestrade pretended not to notice.

Gregson was thinking. "Maybe someone is angry that you work with Holmes." He suggested without conviction. "Or that you argue with him when he's always right." He threw the taunt at Watson, who looked surprised.

"Isn't he?" The doctor asked innocently.

"I was right _once_." Lestrade groused.

Watson frowned. He hesitated, but finally gave in. "I know this sounds paranoid, but could someone be threatening _Holmes_ through people they perceived as close to him?"

Both Inspectors looked distinctly uncomfortable at being described as _close_ to Sherlock Holmes. Gregson cleared his throat. "Has he received any threats of which you're aware?" He asked.

Watson shook his head. "I don't know of any." He told the two men.

Lestrade sighed. "This is getting us nowhere. What if it wasn't a lunatic with a Sherlock Holmes obsession?"

"Then it had to be someone who knew." Gregson offered. "Family?" He tensed.

Lestrade gave him the icy glare he deserved. "My wife and children know. My sister and her husband know. My in-laws know. None of them would do this. My mother-in-law would find a better way to get rid of me." He added, before Gregson could say something infuriating.

Watson hesitated. "Your mother-in-law-"

"Wouldn't have done it." Lestrade assured the doctor wearily.

"Friends?" Gregson somehow managed to keep all emotion out of his voice as he asked.

"Doctor Watson knows." Lestrade replied dismissively. "I don't think he did it."

Gregson almost sighed at the look on Watson's face as he took in that bit of information. "What about down at the Yard?" He asked reluctantly.

Lestrade was not any happier about the suggestion than Gregson was. "_You_ know."

"You got me." Gregson quipped. Lestrade ignored him.

"Hopkins knows, now. So does Adams. Does Jones?"

"Jones was with the Yard when it happened. I imagine he at least knows that you had been injured there previously." Gregson answered. "But it wouldn't make sense for it to be an Inspector." He looked over at Watson. "Aside from the obvious, it wouldn't make sense for one of us to target ourselves."

"Unless it were a cover." Watson pointed out. "But I can't picture Bradstreet or Jones doing something like this. The very idea is absurd."

The two Inspectors in the room were in complete agreement with him. "Hopkins wouldn't do it either." Gregson did not care to state the obvious, but Lestrade had not done it and somebody needed to.

"He was there when I was attacked, anyway." Lestrade reminded him.

"Constables, then?" Watson asked reluctantly. The sooner they got through this unpleasant line of thinking, the better.

"I think it's just Adams." Lestrade said.

"Unless one of _them_ read Watson's story and then checked to verify whether or not your foot did, in fact, twist inward." Gregson pointed out with maddening calm. Lestrade grimaced.

"Could be anyone, then." He grumbled. "Are you going to start rounding up Constables for questioning?"

"What about people you knew when the original injury took place?" Watson asked.

Lestrade considered this new question. "There was the doctor who treated me." He said slowly, trying to remember. "Superintendent Beals knew. Inspector Adams. West." Gregson was not entirely successful in repressing a shiver. "Everyone there knew I had broken my foot, but it was not common knowledge that it could have left me lame."

"Adams couldn't have run from you." Gregson ruled out the retired Inspector unnecessarily. "Superintendent Beals is retired."

"He was too small to be Beals. And anyway, there's no motivation." Lestrade rubbed his forehead wearily. "And no, we can't just blame West."

"It'd be convenient." Gregson grumbled. "I wouldn't put it past him, either."

Lestrade sighed. "I had the same family then as I do know, less two children. This is getting us nowhere." He grumbled half-heartedly.

Gregson reluctantly agreed. "I need to get going." He said, standing. "I'll leave the two of you to your own affairs."

Lestrade looked up at him. "Keep me informed." He requested. Gregson nodded, and left.

* * *

><p>Watson and Lestrade looked at each other, then down at Lestrade's bandaged foot. "Go on, then." Lestrade growled. "That <em>is<em> why you're here."

Watson chuckled. "Is it vanity that makes me worry when someone else sews up my Yarders?" He asked, eliciting a small smile from the injured man.

"_Your_ Yarders." Lestrade considered this. "Does a person become the property of his doctor after a certain number of visits?"

"Twenty-seven visits." Watson joked. "You passed that mark long ago, I'm afraid. Don't worry, Lestrade, this shouldn't take long."

Lestrade shrugged as Watson began removing the bandages. "If it eases Lizzie's mind, it's more than worth the nuisance." He said. He did not admit that it would ease his mind as well, and Watson politely did not suggest it either.

* * *

><p>Bradstreet pushed his way through a crowd that did not easily give way. No one was paying attention to him. No one noticed him enough to get out of the way of the huge Inspector as he tried to get to the doors of Scotland Yard.<p>

Word of Lestrade's case must have gotten out, Bradstreet thought. He grimaced. The smaller Inspector had been playing a dangerous game, keeping it all quiet. Knowledge of what sort of objects were being delivered to Scotland Yard could easily cause a panic. The public would not take the fact that Inspectors were being targeted in this well either.

On the other hand, once it got out, people would be furious to learn that the Yard had been keeping the matter quiet. Lestrade would have found trouble either way. He had opted for the second. Bradstreet only hoped the man was not risking his career.

"Inspector? Inspector!" Bradstreet turned and stifled a curse; he had been recognized by a reporter. "Anything you can tell us about this grisly affair, Inspector? Any idea who's behind it? Any idea why someone would be targeting Scotland Yard?"

"No comment." He managed not to make it sound like a threat. At least people were moving for him now.

"What about the condition the Constabulary is in?" The reporter called after him. "Shouldn't an officer of the law be better equipped to deal with this sort of thing?"

Bradstreet had no idea what the man was talking about. He chose to ignore the question.

He reached the front of the building at last and found himself wishing he had not. Constable Smith was there, pale and trembling, trying in vain to do something about the gathering crowd, but no one was paying him any heed.

All eyes were on all that remained of a human corpse as it rested against the wall beside the door. Above him, scrawled as if in blood, were three words:

_"Liars and Thieves"_

It took Bradstreet a second to find his voice. "All right, move along!" He shouted, turning to face the crowd. "Come on, get back and let us do our jobs!" A few people reluctantly started to move. The reporters stayed put.

Bradstreet needed Gregson or Lestrade, who could terrorize just about any crowd into moving on. He himself was woefully inadequate to the task. He turned to Smith.

"See who's inside," he said softly, "we need to get this crowd dispersed, and quickly. If there are any Inspectors present, send them this way. If there aren't, slip out the back door and go for Gregson." He paused for a moment, thinking, "Watson too, if he's available. I know Lestrade was consulting with him on something similar to this."

Similar nothing. Bradstreet already knew this was related. Smith nodded and took off, and Bradstreet focused his efforts on trying to keep the crowd from getting out of control before he could get back-up.

Constable Cratchett was the first to come out, and Bradstreet resisted the urge to sigh. A too-timid Constable with a slight stammer was not going to be any help.

The Constable caught a glimpse of the corpse and Bradstreet thought he was going to pass out. Somehow he did not, but pulled himself together and waded into the crowd.

Adams emerged from the building, Evans half a second behind him, and the two men seemed to be refusing to look at the body as they followed Craddock's example and set to encouraging people to move on.

Bradstreet left them to it, and turned his attention back to the corpse.

The victim was a male. Bradstreet guessed that he had been in his mid-thirties before his death. His raven black hair was dirty and ragged. His eyes-bright blue eyes-were wide open as if in terror.

Bradstreet shivered.

His clothes were filthy; underneath dirt and grime and what was likely dried blood they looked to have belonged to a tradesman.

His ears had been severed. Likewise his hands and feet. Bradstreet caught himself wondering which of the appendages the Yard had already been sent would match.

He considered the message on the wall above the dead man.

_Liars and Thieves_

He was almost certain it had been written in blood.

* * *

><p>Gregson was up and out of the cab as soon as it stopped, leaving an angry Doctor Watson sitting there with his mouth half open and many more reasons for not disturbing Inspector Lestrade, who had yet to be able to support any weight on his foot.<p>

The Inspector in question was seated painfully next to Gregson's abandoned seat. The ride had been anything but smooth-Lestrade looked rather pale as he waited for Watson to curse at Gregson's empty seat before standing and dismounting himself.

Watson waited at the bottom while Constable Smith stood and all but hauled Lestrade to his feet. Between doctor and Constable they somehow managed to get the Inspector safely on solid ground, but once there Lestrade was forced to submit to the indignity of leaning on the Constable for support.

Lestrade pinked slightly and leveled his own curse at Gregson in a nearly inaudible mutter. Smith heard it, but his face remained unreadable.

"It's bad, Inspector," the Constable murmured softly. He had regained most of his normal color and composure by the time they had arrived, but as they approached the scene the blood began once again to slowly drain from his face.

* * *

><p>It was a good thing Gregson had not waited. Bradstreet caught sight of him and his jaw clicked shut, much to the annoyance of the swarm of reporters that had cornered him.<p>

"No comment!" Gregson bellowed preemptively as he shouldered his way to stand beside Bradstreet. Several reporters jumped, and Gregson resisted the urge to smirk. "Now move on, unless you want to be charged with interfering in police business."

People began to move. Gregson was not bluffing, and everyone there knew it. The Inspector had only ever had to throw one reporter in a cell, and that had only been overnight. Marshall, Superintendent at the time, had made Gregson release the man the next morning and worse, apologize, and the reporter had gotten a number of articles on it, from accusing Gregson of abusing his power as a police man to accusing Scotland Yard of being inhumane in their treatment of prisoners, but from then on Gregson had found the threat more than capable of getting even the most stubborn of investigative reporters to clear out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone veer in Lestrade's direction. "They've not got anything to say either, Jeffries!"

Jeffries balked, weighing the dangers of crossing Gregson against the scoop he sensed he could get on the other Inspector's injury. A glare from Watson, who had also seen Jeffries and doubled back to intercept the reporter, made up the man's mind for him and he left along with the others.

Gregson glared at Bradstreet. "Why were you talking to the reporters?" He demanded.

"I wasn't." Bradstreet replied sharply, his usual easygoing manner had failed him as soon as he had begun examining the corpse. "I was rescuing Evans from them when he finally got a look at that-" he jerked his finger at the dead body behind him "and lost his breakfast. The reporters latched on to his reaction with unholy glee."

Bradstreet caught sight of Lestrade then. "Why is _he_ here?" He demanded.

"He needs to be here." Gregson told him. "It's his case, and once this gets out it'll only be a matter of time before the rest follows. How's it going to look if he not only kept the details of this case quiet, but wasn't there working it when it finally went public."

"He's injured." Bradstreet pointed out, exasperated. "He can't even walk."

"You think that's going to matter?" Gregson asked coldly, and Bradstreet hated him for being right.

Watson had reached the front of the building and was examining the corpse. If he had heard anything of the conversation, it did not show on his face.


	8. Prove Yourself

_Author's Note: Sorry, guys. Inconsistent is my middle name, I suppose. And this chapter is shorter than the others. Again, sorry. Hope you like it anyway._

* * *

><p>"Liars and thieves." It was Lestrade who said it as Watson helped him to a seat. "What the devil is <em>that<em> supposed to mean?"

They had retreated to Hopkins' office. The Superintendent had been called in and was settled impatiently at his desk, the fingers on his right hand tapping out an agitated rhythm. Hopkins did not have an answer for the injured Inspector.

Watson did not either.

Gregson entered, dragging his own chair along with him. He stopped in the doorway as Hopkins' eyes found his and the Superintendent leveled a glare at him that far rivaled any that the fair haired Inspector had ever given.

Gregson met his gaze evenly. "By this time tomorrow it will be all over the papers." The man said calmly. "The rest will come to light before the week is out. _Lestrade's_ name is the one tied to the case. _He_ made the decision to keep it quiet. _He _will be the one they crucify. It will be a hundred times worse if he doesn't at least _appear_ to be working the case when it all comes out."

"He's right." Lestrade spoke up in the other Inspector's defense, though there was a weariness in his voice as he spoke. "No sense in making things worse than they already are."

Hopkins turned his glare on Lestrade. "I'd rather the papers tore you apart and still have you than have them tear you apart and lose you because you didn't give yourself time to heal." He said sharply.

"I'm not walking on it." Lestrade retorted peevishly. "Do you think I _want_ to be left lame?"

"I'm beginning to wonder." Hopkins snapped. "I'm also starting to wonder if you have some sort of death wish."

Gregson swore under his breath. "You _know_ he can't sit this one out, Hopkins. Not now. If you'd just use your head-"

"No, Gregson," Hopkins interrupted him, "_you_ think. What's Lestrade going to do? Sit in his office the entire time? Someone targeted our Inspectors. Then he turned violent. Now he's accused the entire Yard _and_ made the affair public. What happens next? What if someone else is assaulted? What happens if Lestrade runs into him again?"

"I'm not going anywhere on my own." Lestrade growled at both of them. He turned to look at Gregson. "I can at least keep the press occupied and off _your_ back."

For a split second Gregson looked troubled, but it passed almost instantly. "This is going to be brutal." He declared to no one in particular.

"And you accuse me of stating the obvious." Lestrade grumbled.

"That's because you do." Gregson replied. "And it is going to be, and if you're going to be dealing with the press you need to pull yourself together. Take this kind of attitude with them and you'll be lucky to escape with any of your career intact."

"Attitude?" Lestrade growled. Behind his desk, Hopkins looked helplessly at Watson. He might have been both men's superior, but it gave him no confidence in his ability to mediate between the two should things turn nasty between them. The sudden change between the two men-from ally, of a sort, to foe-was only more reason to worry.

Watson had heard that only a fool would get between the two Inspectors when they were going at it. He had never been witness to one such altercation between them, but on his own neither man was one to cross.

He was, all the same, fully prepared to play the part of fool and intervene if necessary.

"You've been in a foul mood since you got here." Gregson pointed out. "And I'm not the only person you've taken it out on. I thought Evans was going to faint when you reamed him out for showing weakness in front of the press."

"I'm in pain!" Lestrade snarled, leaning forward in his seat. "How about someone stabs you in the foot and hits you with a metal bar and see how pleasant you are when you get dragged back into work and can't even put pressure on it, let alone walk!"

Gregson started to sneer at him, but caught himself. "So what exactly does 'Liars and Thieves' mean?" He asked, as if seconds ago he had not been involved in a heated discussion with the other Inspector.

Lestrade also let the matter go. "I don't know." He said, shaking his head. "Someone feels we've wronged them, but I have no idea who or why or how."

Hopkins resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands. There were too many questions and not enough answers.

"It was blood?" He asked. "On the wall?"

Watson nodded. "It was." He confirmed. "Whether or not it belonged to the poor fellow left propped against the wall under it I cannot say."

"I hate to think of who else it could belong to." Hopkins admitted reluctantly.

With that hanging in the air, Gregson stood and excused himself. "I'll be in my office." He told them before stepping out into the hall.

* * *

><p>Gregson mentally cursed himself all the way to his office. There was nothing he had done that he regretted, but the necessity of such actions irked him.<p>

Lestrade should not have to be at the Yard. He should not have to offer himself as a target to keep the press occupied.

But there were a lot of things Lestrade should not have had to face during the course of his life that he had, and Gregson doubted that the man wasted much energy worrying about what he should and should not have to deal with. As far as Lestrade was concerned, things were what they were. There was no point in wishing otherwise.

Gregson's mood darkened as he crossed his office and moved to stand in front of his desk-someone had been here. His desk was not the seemingly disorganized mess he had left it.

It was now a different mess, this one truly disorganized. Gregson stifled a curse and began sorting through the papers to see what was missing; the thought that something had been left instead did not occur to him.

He found a piece of paper that did not belong with the rest and held it up for inspection. This time he did curse. A second later he was out the door.

* * *

><p>"Adams." Constable Adams stopped, wheeled about, and waited as the large Inspector caught up with him.<p>

Inspector Gregson did not look pleased. Either someone had tried to kill another Inspector, or someone had been messing around in his office.

Adams did not dare utter a sigh. It would do him no good, and spare him from nothing.

"The woman." He said it as Gregson came to a stop in front of him. Gregson's eyes flashed dangerously, and he waited.

"A young woman was looking for you earlier." Adams explained, wondering idly if his unofficial designation as one of Lestrade's favorites would only make things worse. "When you weren't in your office she said she would wait, but after it had been an hour and you were still out, she said she would come back later." It sounded weak as he said it. Adams silently cursed himself for a fool.

"Her name?" Gregson asked instead of letting that razor sharp tongue of his loose on the Constable. His voice was not its usual even tone, it was far too flat to fool anyone into thinking nothing was wrong.

This time Adams shivered. "Mary."

"Mary?" Gregson could not keep the sharpness out of that one word. "Mary who?"

"She didn't give a last name." Adams admitted. He should have known better, but he had been disarmed by the soft-spoken young lady with a pretty face. He offered a description of her before Gregson could ask. "Blonde hair, blue eyes. Tall for a woman. She seemed shy, couldn't look me in the eye for more than a second or two at a time. She seemed nervous. She kept checking her clothes and her hair. She was dressed higher middle class."

Again Gregson did not verbally tear the Constable apart. "You remember nothing else?" He asked, his voice flat again.

"No, sir." Adams replied reluctantly. Gregson turned away and started down the hall. Adams had been spared, for now.

"Let me know immediately if you remember anything else." Gregson called over his shoulder.

* * *

><p>Lestrade looked up from his desk in his office as Gregson opened the door and stepped inside without bothering to knock. One look at the other man's face and Lestrade knew something else had already gone wrong.<p>

"What happened?" He demanded. He leaned forward to stand, but the motion sent pain shooting through his foot, reminding him of an injury he should not have been able to forget.

Gregson did not answer. Instead he asked a question of his own. "How big was your assailant?" His eyes were distant, not entirely focused on Lestrade. The man was thinking hard.

Lestrade took this information in, then realized what he had just been asked. "Size had nothing to do with him getting the better of me." He replied peevishly. He had thought Gregson had given up on using his smaller size to taunt him. "I told you, I wasn't expecting-"

Gregson cut him off. "I wasn't insulting you. I need to know your assailant's size. Tall? Short? Your size?"

Lestrade blinked. "He was two inches taller than me and a good bit thinner." He said, and Gregson did not doubt the accuracy of the claim.

"Did you see your assailant's face?" He asked. Lestrade shook his head.

"What happened?" He demanded yet again. Again, Gregson ignored the question.

"How hard did he hit your face?" He asked, and Lestrade flinched. When he hesitated, Gregson pressed on. "You said you never passed out, that it only stunned you."

Lestrade still did not answer. He was trying to figure out why Gregson was asking him these particular questions, what had happened to cause him to come down here in the first place, and how to answer, all at the same time.

"Did he hit you as hard as a man would have?" Gregson prompted, growing impatient, and Lestrade stared. "What about your foot? How hard did he hit your foot?"

Lestrade paled. Then he leaned forward to glare up at the other Inspector. "Tobias. Gregson." He ground out, his eyes flashing and his voice low. "What the devil is going on?"

Gregson wordlessly handed over the note. Lestrade read it over and looked back up when he had finished. "Well?"

"A woman left it in my office." Gregson told him. Without another word he turned and left to find Hopkins.

And to give Lestrade time to think.

* * *

><p>"What do you remember about Lestrade's assailant?" Gregson asked before Hopkins could so much as invite him in. He entered the younger man's office anyway.<p>

Hopkins looked up at him warily. "He ran when he saw Adams and me approaching." He told Gregson. "We were more concerned with the fact that Lestrade was down and not fighting back than with catching him, I'm afraid."

"Do you remember anything about the assailant's size?" Gregson asked, before Hopkins could ask if he were all right.

Hopkins frowned. "His size?" He echoed, and Gregson resisted the urge to swear at the inability of people in general to ask a simple question without first demanding your name, place of birth, and family history.

"He wasn't much taller than Lestrade, I'd guess." Hopkins offered. "He was leaner, though. Too thin for his height, I'd guess, but I didn't much of him."

"Did you see his face?" Gregson demanded. Like Lestrade, Hopkins shook his head.

"What's going on?" It was not a request, it was an order. Hopkins rarely pushed his authority on the Inspectors at Scotland Yard-he rarely needed to. Now he was demanding an answer from Gregson, an action that could potentially cause more harm than good if Gregson took offense.

Gregson rarely took offense at anyone at the Yard other than Lestrade. One thing he did take offense at was younger policemen telling him his job.

Gregson did not bat an eye at the demand. He simply handed over the same paper he had shown Lestrade earlier. "This was in my office. Adams left a woman in my office earlier-she claimed she was looking for me."

Hopkins looked at the paper Gregson had given him.

_"Prove Yourself."_

"What does it mean?" He asked. Gregson shrugged. "You think the woman left it?" Hopkins pressed, and then it hit him.

"You think the woman who left the note in your office was the same person that attacked Lestrade?" He asked, only partially doubtful. Gregson was intelligent. Hopkins had known plenty of women over the years who, when pushed, were more than capable of pushing back. Still…

"Why?"


	9. Inviting Trouble

Elisabeth Lestrade answered the door and offered her guests a small smile. "Come in," she told them warmly. She took their hats and coats and led them to the sitting room. "The girls insisted they were cooking tonight." She informed them, eyes twinkling.

Thomas Addison smiled. "If they cook half as well as their mother, we're in for a treat." He informed his parents. Elisabeth shook her head in amusement as they all seated themselves in the front room.

"_Amy _takes after her father when it comes to cooking." Elisabeth informed Thomas cheerfully. She did not clarify as to whether this was a good thing or bad.

"How _is_ Mr. Lestrade?" Thomas asked, worried. "I had heard he was injured."

Elisabeth pursed her lips, and her eyes flashed, but her words remained easy. "He could stand to take some time off, but that rarely means anything in his line of work. He should be home soon, though. He is at least managing to make it home at a decent hour."

As if on cue, the door opened. Elisabeth rose and excused herself.

Thomas Addison offered his mother a charming smile. "They're good people." He assured her.

Mrs. Addison looked at her son. "No one ever said they weren't." She reproved gently.

Both Lestrades returned shortly, Mr. Lestrade leaning heavily on a much larger man. His expression said quite clearly that he would rather be doing anything other than accepting help.

The large man helped Elisabeth settle her husband on the couch. "See you tomorrow." He offered cheerfully, ignoring both the discomfort of the smaller Inspector and the audience they seemed to have found themselves with.

He turned to Elisabeth. "Good evening, Ma'am." He said respectfully, and Elisabeth smiled. He returned the smile before turning to the other three people in the room.

"Good evening." He said with the same easy air, as if he had known them all his lives. "Forgive the intrusion."

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "You aren't intruding, Bradstreet." He told the larger man.

Bradstreet shrugged him off. "Melissa will be expecting me." He said. He turned to Elisabeth. "I can see myself out, Elisabeth, don't trouble yourself."

Elisabeth turned to her husband when the man had left. "Trouble myself." She huffed, but she was smiling. "As if Roger Bradstreet has ever been any trouble for anyone."

Lestrade shrugged. "Never intentionally." He replied wearily.

Something in Elisabeth's mood changed. "How was it?" She asked softly.

"Bad enough." He said, not really answering, but it seemed answer enough for her.

"Is it worth it?" She asked.

Lestrade shrugged. "If they're busy dragging my name through the mud they'll leave Gregson alone and he can work the case without their interference." He said.

_They_ were the press, of course. Thomas Addison's father had a cousin who was a reporter. The man had once admitted that being good at the job meant having no scruples about potentially ruining someone's life-or career.

Lestrade grimaced. "And then Grayson had to remember that I'd had a foot injury before-wanted to know if it were the same foot." Elisabeth looked grim as he spoke.

"If they come around here…" She breathed.

"You will _not_ chase anyone off with the kitchen knives." Lestrade told her firmly, startling her into a laugh.

"I don't suppose that would help anything, would it?" She admitted ruefully.

Lestrade shrugged. He looked over at Thomas. "This is what you're getting yourself into Laddie." He warned. "Both girls take after their mother-"

"Except for when they take after their Da." Elisabeth finished for him.

"If you two are finished telling tales," Amy had entered the room unnoticed, "dinner is ready."

Thomas moved without thinking over to where Lestrade was sitting and offered him his hand. Lestrade blinked and reddened slightly, but allowed the younger man to help him up.

Thomas was surprised as he helped the man; Lestrade weighed a lot more than he expected. He caught himself looking the man over and was thankful that Lestrade was too occupied to notice.

"You get thrown around a lot more easily when you're smaller." Lestrade offered, and Thomas reddened. The man started to laugh, but swallowed it back and turned a shade paler than he had already been.

"Sir?" Lestrade shook his head.

"I'm fine." He managed, then caught himself. "I shouldn't be on it." He admitted. "Even with help it wears me out to move."

Thomas was not sure whether the man were to be admired or if he were just crazy, going into work like this when he was injured badly enough that he could not put pressure on his left foot.

Dinner was a quiet affair, for the most part. Lestrade ate quietly, and the rest of his family seemed to follow his lead. Thomas appeared unbothered by the silence, but his parents found themselves feeling just a little out of place.

"When is Doctor Watson coming over again?" It was the younger Miss Lestrade that finally broke the silence.

Her father did not seem to hear her, but her mother offered her a despairing glance. "When does he usually come over, Olivia?"

"Every Thursday." She replied primly. "But he was out of town with Mr. Holmes last Thursday, and he _was_ here two days ago to check on Da, so I was wondering if he were coming Thursday, or sooner."

Elisabeth sighed at her daughter, but did not seem overly upset with her. She turned her attention to her husband. "Giles," she said gently.

Lestrade started. "Sorry, love." He said, then remembered they had company. "I'm that tired." He admitted, rubbing his temple wearily.

"Never you worry yourself about it." Elisabeth told him firmly. "You're here, Giles. I don't much care if you're too tired to think straight."

"Do I ever think straight?" He asked, grinning ruefully up at her.

"Now stop that," she admonished gently. "You know better than to take a bunch of reporters seriously, Giles. You're more worn than you're letting on if you're letting the likes of them get to you."

He shrugged. "It's not just the reporters."

"Gregson." She guessed. "You can't take him seriously either. He'd say something just to get to you, whether it were true or not."

Another shrug. "If you say so." He said instead of arguing.

"Giles Lestrade!" She scolded, exasperated.

"Ma," Amy said it quietly , but both her parents turned to look at her.

Elisabeth's expression cleared abruptly. She rose gracefully from the table. "Your Da and I will clean up."

Neither daughter argued, though neither looked particularly pleased with the decision as they stood and led their company back to the sitting room.

"Stay," Elisabeth told her husband when they were gone, before he could even think about trying to get up. "I'm more than capable of cleaning up myself."

"Nobody said you weren't, love." Lestrade said wearily. "I'm sorry," he said, but did not try to explain himself.

"You're too hard on yourself, Giles." She said, moving to stand behind him. Leaning forward to wrap her arms around him she continued, "Nobody expects you to be Gregson. Or Mr. Holmes, for that matter." She shuddered. "Nobody _wants_ you to be either of them. One of each is more than enough."

"Be yourself, Giles. You do that best, and Giles Lestrade is no one to be ashamed of." She said, resting her chin lightly on his head.

* * *

><p>Gregson crumbled up the paper and threw it with more force than was necessary. Alone in his office with no one else to see or overhear, he swore. It was little consolation that a certain reporter would never show his face to another Yarder again-if he knew what was good for him.<p>

His was not the only article vicious enough to get under Lestrade's considerably thick skin, either.

Gregson considered the description he had gotten from Adams of the woman that had been in his office. He knew she was connected to the case somehow. He suspected that she had been the one to attack Lestrade in that alley, though he had nothing to support that theory.

It scarcely mattered anyway; he could not find the woman, and she had not, in spite of what she had said to Adams, come back.

He cursed again and stood, resigning himself to do the unpleasant.

He would go see Sherlock Holmes. No one was better at tracking down people who did not want to be found.

He was halfway out the door when the words came back to him.

_Prove yourself._

Prove yourself? Was the message a reference to the Yard's occasional dealings with Sherlock Holmes?

_Liars and Thieves_.

They had taken credit for a number of cases Sherlock Holmes had solved for them, albeit at his urging.

Lestrade's assailant had targeted his _left _foot. The one that _twisted inward._

Whoever had been sending the packages had targeted Inspectors named in the _Sherlock Holmes _stories Watson wrote.

Gregson wondered if he were so desperate for answers that he was seeing connections where none really existed.

He did not think he was.

He would not go to Holmes. If his suspicions were correct, and the message left on his desk was a challenge to solve the case without the amateur detective's involvement, there was no knowing how someone who thought sending Scotland Yard boxes of severed body parts was a good idea-not to mention violent enough to attack and attempt to maim an Inspector who got in their way-might react if he brought the detective in on the case.

As much as he never would have admitted it aloud, he wanted to test his theory on Lestrade. No doubt the man _would_ tell him he was being paranoid, but he would not completely disregard it, and he would give it consideration.

Unfortunately Lestrade was not an option, not unless he wanted to harass the man in his own home, and while Gregson was not above doing just that if the situation called for it he did not feel justified in bothering him with this. Not yet.

Somebody ploughed into him, and Gregson belatedly realized he was still standing halfway out of his office. "Sorry there, Gregson!"

He blinked at Bradstreet, who was spreading his hands in a placating gesture. The man was nearly his height and broader in shoulder, or Gregson likely would have paid him no notice.

"Are you all right?" Bradstreet asked, slightly concerned. Had it been anyone else, Gregson would have been annoyed, but Bradstreet was Bradstreet. The man meant well, and was easygoing to a fault. Even if Gregson _had_ been annoyed, showing it would have been an exercise in futility. Bradstreet would have brushed it off, just like he did everything else.

"Fine." Gregson said, coming to a decision. "Let me ask your opinion on something."

Bradstreet looked slightly apprehensive. "Something case related?" He guessed, following the other man back inside his office.

Gregson took a seat and waited for Bradstreet to do the same, organizing his thoughts. Bradstreet listened in silence while the other man talked, his expression giving away nothing. When Gregson finished, he still said nothing.

Gregson fixed him with a look. Bradstreet merely smiled back.

"I don't know." Bradstreet offered before Gregson _did_ get annoyed. "I would say that any thread tying those events together would have to be pretty thin. I would say that those are some pretty fantastic leaps in your deductive process. But I've seen time and time again where you sat in your office and reasoned out a case with connections the rest of us couldn't make out and been right. I'd also ask if Lestrade wouldn't be a better person to try this out on, but he's not all that available, is he?"

Bradstreet sighed, and looked troubled-for him. "I'm not much help, am I?" He shrugged. "I suppose it's possible." He said, and fell silent for a moment, thinking.

"You could send someone to Holmes to test that theory." He finally suggested.

Gregson frowned as he considered the idea. It was risky. Dangerous. Perhaps too much so.

Gregson did not like taking risks. Too many close calls with Lestrade when he had first started at the Yard had cured him of that. The case hardly needed to be passed on again, and it might well be, if he went to Holmes and something happened to him-

He looked at Bradstreet, wondering if he had read the man right. "Whoever is responsible attacked Lestrade." He pointed out. "And nearly crippled him."

Bradstreet did not seem overly concerned. "I know." He leaned back in his chair, waiting.

"They've also been gifting Yarders with severed body parts." Gregson reminded him, in case he had forgotten. Bradstreet nodded imperturbably.

Gregson sighed. "I'm not asking you to do this." Bradstreet smiled.

"I know." He said.

* * *

><p>"What do you make of it?" Holmes asked, almost-but not quite-startling his flat-mate.<p>

"Hmm?" Watson looked up. "When did you get back?" Holmes waved the question off.

"What do you think?" He asked, nodding toward the message the other held in his hand.

Watson reconsidered the message. "The paper is what I would expect from a member of Scotland Yard, though more from Lestrade than Bradstreet."

"Bradstreet's been stealing Lestrade's paper again." Holmes suggested. Watson looked up at him in surprise.

"Again?" He asked. "Is that wise, stealing from Lestrade's office?"

He was genuinely concerned, but Holmes only shrugged. "Paper is the only thing Bradstreet steals from Lestrade-aside from the occasional lunch. Lestrade's tolerance for it is one of the few things about the man that I have yet to understand."

Watson set that aside to consider later and went back to studying the message. "The handwriting is his. It was not written under duress-Bradstreet was not upset when he wrote it out. But…"

"Yes?" Holmes pressed, when Watson hesitated.

"Mr. Holmes," Watson read again, this time aloud, "I need to consult with you on details of a _certain case_-I am sure you already know which. I am equally certain that you understand how important it is that news of our visit does not get out-the Yard is experiencing enough difficulty as it is over _certain details _of a _certain case._ Consequently, I hope it will not inconvenience you terribly if I call at a later hour than normal-nine o'clock-to seek your advice on a _certain case_. Sincerely, Inspector Roger Bradstreet, Scotland Yard."

Watson looked up. "That doesn't sound at all like Bradstreet." He said, frowning. "Are you certain he wrote it?"

"It is his handwriting." Holmes said.

Watson considered this. "Is he trying to warn us of something?" He suggested. "He has underlined every mention of whatever case he allegedly wants your help with-could that be Lestrade's case? Is it possible some new development has him worried for our safety?"

Holmes shook his head. "While it is certainly possible, Watson, I do not believe it to be the case. Rather, I believe that the emphasis placed on the case he is coming to ask us about is for the benefit of someone else."

"To what purpose, Holmes?" Watson asked, his frown deepening.

"We shall know soon enough." Holmes told him, nodding toward the clock. "It is nearly nine."

Nine o'clock came and went, and Bradstreet did not show. By fifteen after, Watson was beginning to worry.

"You don't think he's run into trouble?" Watson ventured. "Should we go look for him?"

"Bradstreet would not be so discourteous as to keep us waiting." Holmes conceded, rising from his chair.

They were out on the street in a matter of minutes, Watson peering into the darkness around them as if expecting to see Bradstreet appear out of it.

"Would he have taken a cab?" Watson wondered. Holmes shook his head.

"Not if he were inviting trouble." He murmured. Watson turned from studying the street and looked at his friend.

"Inviting trouble?" He asked. "Would Bradstreet do something so foolish?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Watson jumped at the sound and mentally cursed both men-Bradstreet for appearing out of nowhere, and Holmes for not reacting to the Inspector's sudden appearance. His annoyance faded as he turned around and caught a glimpse of Bradstreet's pale face in the dim light of the street lamp.

"Are you all right?" Watson asked, concerned. "What happened?"

Bradstreet managed a small smile. "Nothing I wasn't expecting." He admitted. He managed to look sheepish. "Forgive me for taking advantage of your hospitality…" He murmured, his voice suddenly softer.

"Not at all." Holmes said smoothly, surprising Watson by stepping forward to put a reassuring hand on the large Inspector's back. "Shall we?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Holmes." Bradstreet muttered under his breath as the two walked companionably up the stairs, Watson a step behind.

"You're bleeding." Holmes replied in an undertone. Bradstreet shrugged.

He did not argue with Watson when the doctor told him to sit down while he got his medical kit. He may not have been concerned with his injury, but he was not the sort to argue with the doctor.

"To be honest," Bradstreet began explaining as Watson went to work on his arm-someone had left a bloody gash in his forearm that may not have worried Bradstreet but certainly worried Watson, "I didn't actually come for advice."

"You were hoping to attract attention." Holmes offered, settling into his armchair by the fire. He reached for his pipe. "You appear to have been successful."

Bradstreet grinned sheepishly. "Gregson was right, unless the woman in his office just happened to be there at the wrong time, but I'm not sure I believe in such a big coincidence." The big man hardly seemed to notice that Watson was sewing his arm up as he spoke. "Pretty little thing, grabbed my arm and started babbling about being lost." He chuckled softly before continuing. "Next thing I knew a line of fire streaked down my arm and she was running for all she was worth down the street."

"You didn't follow her?" Holmes demanded.

"I did. I lost sight of her two blocks from here. She turned the corner ahead of me and by the time I reached it she had disappeared." Bradstreet was big, and he was a good man to have in a fight, but one thing he was not was quick on his feet. "But now we know that there's a woman involved"

Watson scowled at the man as he realized that the Inspector had been using himself as bait to try to draw out whoever was involved in the case Lestrade had passed on to Gregson. "You _do_ realize that whoever's behind all this has no problem with dismembering people-or attacking policemen?" He demanded. "You could have been injured a lot worse-not that this isn't bad enough."

Bradstreet looked from Holmes to Watson. The doctor sat stiffly, with furrowed brows and a scowl etched across his face. Irritation, concern, and exasperation warred for control in normally warm brown eyes. He felt a sudden fondness for this man, who had more than once left his bed in the middle of the night to patch up an Inspector or Constable injured on the job, who put the well-being of those around him before his own, and-not least-who had won the loyalty and friendship of one of the closest men at Scotland Yard.

Lestrade did not trust easily. He opened up to others even less readily than he trusted them. That Watson had managed to make a friend of the man had won the respect of those few Yarders who had not already been won over by their own experiences with him.

"This will heal, and to tell you the truth, doctor, I've had a lot worse." The words were meant to be reassuring, but Watson shot him a look.

"I've _seen_ you with worse." The doctor reminded him darkly. "That doesn't mean you should ignore this."

As far as Bradstreet was concerned, he had gotten off with little more than a scratch. It hurt, but not enough for the big man to pay much attention to it.

He knew when not to argue with a doctor, especially when that doctor was Watson. "You've looked at it," he pointed out reasonably, "I couldn't ask for better."

Watson reddened, but was only partially appeased. "Keep it clean. Change the bandaging regularly, and keep me informed." He said briskly, busying himself with straightening out his medical bag.

"Of course," Bradstreet assured him. "Thank you." He added.

He did not offer to pay the man-that would have been an insult, and anyway Bradstreet could still remember what had happened when Jones had offered to pay him for setting a broken arm he had received while chasing a murder suspect. Bradstreet had never seen the other Inspector cowed by any man before then, nor had he seen him so since. It had been five years, and nobody at the Yard had dared offer to pay Watson for his much appreciated services since.

Watson waved him off. "You did arrange for an escort on the way back, I hope?"

Bradstreet raised his eyebrows. "An escort? Whatever for?" He asked innocently.

"Bradstreet…" Watson warned; Bradstreet smiled and held up his hands in surrender.

There was a knock downstairs before the Inspector had to explain. Holmes raised an eyebrow at Bradstreet, making him wonder how much the man had already deduced about their visitor, and excused himself.

Watson raised an inquiring eyebrow at Bradstreet, reminding the man of Lestrade, but did not ask.

A minute later Holmes returned, followed by a man that Watson could only describe as gargantuan. The man towered over Holmes and, when he came over to stare down at Bradstreet, made the Inspector look tiny. The man was a giant.

Bradstreet looked up, unperturbed by the scrutiny the mammoth was giving him. "You found the place, then?" He called up cheerfully. He received a grunt in reply.

Bradstreet stood. He needed a second to steady himself, in spite of his casual dismissal of the injury he had received, before he introduced Holmes and Watson to their enormous guest.

"Holmes, Watson, this is my brother. Bob. He's in London for a few days, visiting." Watson looked up at Bradstreet's brother.

He had Bradstreet's brown hair. Their eyes were similar, though the brother's were duller. His face was more somber than the Inspector's. He wore clothing of a lower quality, but a second glance revealed that while the cloth was cheaper, the clothing had been well made and would last.

The man was head and shoulders taller than Bradstreet and twice as thick. Looking at him, Watson had no doubts as to why Bradstreet had chosen his brother over another policeman; no one would be foolish enough to even think about messing with the Inspector with the larger man around. Bradstreet could have walked into one of the shadiest taverns by the docks, set his badge on the table, and still enjoyed his drink in peace with his massive brother as a bodyguard.

"So you're the runt." Watson recovered enough to joke. Bradstreet chuckled, his brother snorted.

"I'll consider that our secret, doctor." Bradstreet replied, leaning forward conspiratorially. Still pale and weak from blood loss, never mind what he said about the injury not being worth worrying over, he lost his balance and would have stumble had his brother not placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Bradstreet tilted his head back to look up at his brother. "Thank you." He said, making a face. "Don't be thinking this means I can't take care of myself."

Bob Bradstreet said nothing, but Watson thought he saw amusement shine in the big man's eyes. Bradstreet smiled.

"Thank you again, Watson." He said, preparing to leave. "Sorry for the trouble. Come on, Bob."

"Nice meeting you." Watson called up to the brother, who grunted. The man did not seem to feel much need for words.

He watched the two men leave, listened to their heavy footsteps on the stairs, and worried.

Bradstreet would make it home safely. Of that he had no doubt. It would take an especially foolish man to pick a fight with his giant of a brother.

Tomorrow, and what would come with it, was another matter entirely.

* * *

><p>"Thanks." Roger Bradstreet said as they reached home. He almost smiled at the grunt he received in reply. He could not recall his older brother uttering more than a handful of words over the years, and that only rarely and at great need.<p>

There had certainly been little need growing up; their father had preferred his children silent and out of the way. Since the man had been given to fits of temper and took his out on anyone who happened to be in the way, both boys had learned to stay out of the way. Speaking out had been a sure way of earning a solid slap to the back of the head-or face; both boys had learned to keep their mouths closed quickly enough.

Roger had been well into his teens before he had started talking, when their father was not around of course, but Bob had never taken much interest in the art of verbal communication.

Bob was a loner. He kept to himself, seeking out little in the way of company-with the exception of his brother. He liked Roger's company enough, but hardly needed to speak to communicate with him. The two had learned long ago to understand each other without words.

"I _was_ being careful." Roger informed his brother tolerantly as they stepped through the front door and into the hallway, then moved out of the way as the blur that was his daughter hurtled past him and threw herself at her uncle.

Bob caught her and tossed her over his shoulder effortlessly. She shrieked and giggled as he just let her hang there while the two men removed their shoes and hung up their hats. Roger smiled at the sight; where normally it took years for the child to warm up to someone enough to come out from behind whatever parent was close enough to hide behind, Sophie had taken to Uncle Bob instantly. The two were thick as thieves, getting into who knew what mischief while Roger was at work. He was only grateful that Melissa was more amused than vexed by their antics.

She was relieved, he knew. Sophie had been slow to start speaking as well, and still quite different from other girls her age. Roger had not worried much; experience with other relations, or at least, other Bradstreets, had given him the impression that oddness ran in the family. Meeting Bob had not been enough to put that same notion in her head, but it did seem to have eased her mind.

Roger shook his head and wondered why people insisted on offering their advice on the care and raising of his daughter. Friends, family-Melissa's family, at least-and neighbours seemed to feel the need to tell him that something was wrong with his daughter because she was quiet, or because she did not play like other children her age, or because she was shy. They all had plenty of advice to give on how to 'fix' her, as if she were not perfectly fine the way she was.

He came out of his thoughts just in time to catch his daughter. He laughed in spite of himself as she giggled and buried her face in his chest, but shot a warning glance at his brother. Melissa would skin them both alive if she caught them playing Sophie's new favorite game. She had been there the first time it had happened; the color had drained from her face and she had leveled a glare on her husband that made Lestrade at his angriest seem kind and caring by comparison.

Laughter twinkled in Bob's eyes, and Roger knew it was a lost cause. Sophie was perfectly safe being tossed about by her father and uncle as if she were a rag doll, and she loved the game so.

He hardly minded, but if his wife caught them at it he was more than willing to let his brother take the blame.


	10. Technicalities

"You're staying home." Elisabeth declared, reaching a hand forward to feel her husband's forehead.

"I have to go." Lestrade told her stubbornly, but held still.

"You're feverish." His wife said. "Your forehead's warm, and you're sweating."

"I'll be at my desk all day." Lestrade reminded her wearily. She removed her hand from his head, and he sat up. "I'll take some of those tea leaves." He added as his wife's brow furrowed and her lips pressed together.

"Mr. Gregson is handling the case. They'll be fine without you for one day." Elisabeth sat down on his side of the bed before he could get his legs out from under the blanket. "You've already spent more than enough time humoring the journalists and reporters and all the rest of that-"

"Lizzie," Lestrade reproved, and his wife flushed and smiled sheepishly.

"It's not right, Giles. They're wrong for saying such things about you, and it makes me angry. Any decent human being would be ashamed." He raised an eyebrow at that last statement, and his wife had to laugh. "Fair enough," she conceded. "I can't say I've ever heard anyone accuse that lot of being decent. Still." She folded her hands in her lap and looked at her husband.

"I love you." She said softly "I can't help but worry." She did not say anything else. He understood anyway.

"Hopkins has already suggested that I hide in my office and try to get caught up on some paperwork." He offered, and waited while his wife considered this.

"Take Olivia with you." She said after several minutes.

Lestrade did not argue. The tone in his wife's voice said her decision was final.

Bradstreet did not bat an eye at the young lady helping her father into his coat, hers already on. He offered her a smile, one that she returned with a smile of her own that was perhaps a bit too forward to be considered entirely proper. "Good morning, Inspector." She greeted him cheerfully.

"Good morning, Miss Lestrade." He replied. "Will you be accompanying us to the Yard this morning?" He asked, sparing Lestrade a glance as he spoke.

Lestrade's eyes were too bright, as if he had had a bit too much to drink, but Bradstreet knew well enough that that was not the only possible cause-or the most likely. That odd glitter in his eyes could mean a few things, one of which that he was getting ill.

Fever from infection was not unlikely, not with his injury, but it was a wonder that his wife was not fighting to get him to stay home.

He looked at the man's daughter again and wondered how Lestrade's wife had managed to convince him to take his daughter to work with him to keep an eye on him-especially since she had apparently been unsuccessful in trying to get him to just stay home.

"Yes, sir." Miss Lestrade replied. "Mum's hoping I'll be able to keep him out of trouble." She added impishly, and Bradstreet had to laugh.

It did not seem that long ago that Lestrade had brought all three of them to Scotland Yard after his wife had been abducted, but the young lady standing before him now had been no more than a baby at the time. Now she was practically grown up.

"That's a full time job." He informed her as they headed out into the street. He could not deny that having the young lady with them made getting Lestrade into the cab that much easier on all of them.

He did not miss the appraising look from Lestrade as he settled back into the seat, or the way his gaze lingered on his injured arm for just a second before his eyes darted back up to meet Bradstreet's. "How are you?" He asked mildly.

Beside him, Miss Lestrade took the opportunity to bury herself behind a book.

"I was thinking it might be nice to have a drink sometime." Bradstreet said instead of answering. "You, me, and Gregson. It's been a while, you know."

Lestrade did not quite frown. "I'm not up to going out." He said carefully.

Bradstreet considered this. "Home's a bit crowded, what with my brother visiting, and you've got three women at yours. What about Gregson?"

Lestrade refrained from offering his opinion of Bradstreet's choice. "Let him know." He said.

Behind her book, Olivia Lestrade frowned.

Heather Gregson faltered at the sight of the two Inspectors and young lady who had accompanied her husband home from work. Her smile returned a second later, and she stepped forward to help the company remove their coats and hats.

"Inspector Lestrade, good to see you again." She greeted him warmly. She pretended not to notice that he needed help to stand, and instead turned to the man supporting him. "Inspector Bradstreet, is it?" She asked; Bradstreet nodded and smiled.

Heather looked the young lady standing a bit apart from the men over. She was neither frightened nor injured, but stood comfortably to the side, content to keep a watchful eye on Inspector Lestrade.

She was a pretty young thing, with blonde hair and large, dark eyes that seemed to take in everything that went on around her. She was small, but moved with a grace and ease that suggested that she was completely at peace with her slight build.

Heather's gaze slipped back to Inspector Lestrade for less than a second before going back to the girl. There was no mistaking whose child the young lady had to be.

"Olivia Lestrade," the Inspector had recovered enough to introduce the girl, "my daughter."

"Heather Gregson." The woman said, and received a warm smile in return. "We'll just let the men settle in the sitting room, and we can have the kitchen to ourselves and have a nice cup of tea and talk."

"Thank you, Mrs. Gregson." The young girl replied, darting forward to take her father's coat before Heather realized he had gotten it off.

"Please, call me Heather." The older woman urged. To her husband she said, "Will the Inspectors be staying for dinner?"

"They've stopped by for a drink," he told her, "that's all."

Heather nodded. They were here for a drink, yes, but they had come for more than that. Heather Gregson knew her husband, and the Inspector Lestrade, well enough to recognize a war council when she saw one. Heather retreated to the kitchen, Lestrade's daughter in tow.

"If I may be so bold," she began as she set a pot of water on the stove, "how in the world did you manage to follow the Inspector to work?"

The girl laughed. "Da had a bit of a fever this morning." She said, her eyes twinkling. "Between that and his injury he wasn't up to the usual argument about him staying home when he's sick." Heather felt an immediate kinship with this girl-she knew well enough the trials of a life with a policeman in the home. "Mum convinced him to take me along." She shrugged. "He's easy enough to manage if you know when to stay out of the way."

Heather laughed. She liked this young girl and her frank way of speaking.

"I hope your father stays around for a bit." Heather said a bit later as she poured tea for the two of them. "My son should be home within the hour, and I think you'd like him."

Olivia Lestrade smiled, but did not comment.

Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief as the women left the room. Bradstreet pretended not to notice, but Gregson chuckled.

He had been expecting the man to be chafing at having his daughter sent to the Yard to look after him-in fact, he had half expected some sort of explosion from the man on the subject.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "You've never tried arguing with Lizzie-especially not when the girls are on her side." The words were spoken mildly enough, but there was a glint in the man's eyes that said Gregson would be best off leaving the matter alone.

Gregson busied himself pouring drinks for himself and his fellow Inspectors.

Bradstreet accepted his drink with a murmur of thanks, his expression neutral as he studied the alcohol in the glass Gregson handed to him.

Gregson almost smiled; Bradstreet was unbelievably picky about his drinks-as long as he was paying for it. If someone else offered him a drink he seemed to consider it his duty to accept whatever he was given without comment.

Lestrade also studied his drink as he received it, but the man had had too many unpleasant experiences over the years with alcohol that had been either poisoned or drugged for Gregson to hold it against him.

Gregson settled back into his seat with his own drink in hand, suddenly not in any hurry to start any sort of discussion about serial-killer women who used severed body parts to send messages and attacked policemen.

Lestrade, for once, did not seem to be in any hurry to get to business either, though he may simply have been worn out from being up and about when he should have been home in bed.

Bradstreet remained silent; he could wait for an eternity for one of the older Inspectors to start talking if he had to.

Seconds stretched out into minutes as the men sat in silence.

Finally Lestrade stirred. "What happened to your arm, Bradstreet?" He asked.

Instead of answering, Bradstreet looked over at Gregson. "You wanted to test your theory on him." He said. "Now's your chance."

Lestrade's eyebrow lifted, and he too turned to look at Gregson. "What theory?" He demanded.

Gregson told him, going over all the information he had gathered-including what he had gotten from Lestrade him self-and being careful to leave nothing out. One missed detail, however small or insignificant seeming could easily be enough to throw the other Inspector-Lestrade rarely forgot anything, and he was capable of keeping the details of multiple cases straight in his mind at the same time, even if it sometimes took him a second to recall them, but the man was not known for his skill at keeping up with Gregson (or Holmes, for that matter) in mentally walking through a case.

He carefully outlined his theory about a woman being involved, and also included Bradstreet's visit to Baker Street and his interaction with the woman with the knife.

Gregson finished talking and waited, albeit with some impatience, for Lestrade to digest what he had just been told. The smaller man remained quiet for several minutes, working through everything Gregson just said while Gregson himself resisted the impulse to fidget and Bradstreet sat looking as relaxed as if this were merely a social call and they were only discussing the weather.

When Lestrade _did_ speak, it was to Bradstreet. "That was stupid." He said bluntly. "Even if you were expecting trouble. You should know better." He looked over at Gregson. "_You_ do know better."

"Like you know better than to take off after someone down a dark alley by yourself?" Gregson retorted, irritated by the accusation.

"I made a mistake, and I paid for it." Lestrade replied, his voice flat. "I was lucky. I was stabbed in the foot instead of the chest-or belly." He glared at Bradstreet. "She-if that's what you think it was-could just as easily have stabbed you as sliced your arm open."

"Do you think it could have been a woman that attacked you?" Gregson asked, refusing to admit, at least not out loud, that Lestrade was right.

Lestrade shrugged. "It could've been. It would explain why I'm still here after being hit in the face by a piece of metal."

Bradstreet did not quite wince at that. "If Lestrade is admitting that it's possible…" he said to Gregson, and the blonde Inspector almost choked at the rude gesture Lestrade gave Bradstreet in reply.

"We need to find her." Bradstreet continued, unperturbed. "But how? Holmes?"

There was no doubt that Holmes would be able to find her. The man himself was a bloodhound, and his Irregulars were their own force to be reckoned with. Holmes would have been more than capable of finding their mystery woman.

Gregson shook his head. "We've been warned not to." He pointed out. "We know this woman-and whoever else might be involved-will retaliate. I'll not risk putting Holmes or Watson in danger." He was looking as Lestrade as he spoke; the other Inspector frowned but offered no argument.

"Do we organize a search among the force, then?" Bradstreet pressed. "If we're looking for her, anyone involved in such a search will be at some risk."

"That's our job." Lestrade said bluntly. "We're already in danger every day we come in to work."

Bradstreet did not need to be told as much. Every policeman knew how dangerous the job was and accepted that danger as a fact of life.

"We can send the men out in pairs," Gregson decided, "that will decrease some of the risk."

Gregson was not being overprotective. Lestrade's small size only made him_ look_ like an easy target, and Bradstreet-especially when expecting trouble-was more than capable of handling himself.

"Separate Smith and Adams." Lestrade suggested. "Evans, Cratchett, Morton…" he trailed off, mentally going through the list of Constables at the Yard, "Taylor, Michaels…"

"I'll go out." Bradstreet offered. "Do you think Jones would?"

"I doubt you could stop him." Lestrade said.

"Wasn't happy when they involved his Mum, then?" Gregson was curious; there were very few forces in this world that would persuade Jones to drag even a fellow Inspector into his personal life-especially when that meant dragging said Inspector away from his _own_ personal life. Jones kept his work and personal life separate as much as possible, and would have preferred that everyone else do the same.

Lestrade shrugged, but did not comment on the matter. Gregson waited, but without result.

"Can we get a description of the woman to give the men?" Gregson asked after a couple minutes of silence failed to coax any details out of Lestrade.

"You and I can sit down with Evans in the morning." Lestrade said to Bradstreet.

Bradstreet grinned. "Between the three of us, we're bound to come up with something good." He said.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. Somewhere a door opened.

"Toby's home." Gregson murmured. Raising his voice, he called to his son. "Your mother's in the kitchen!"

"Yes, Father!" Came the reply. A minute later a young man with a twinkle in his eyes appeared in the doorway. "Company?" He asked, looking around the room. "Inspectors," he noted, "I'll be in the kitchen with Mum, then.

He was as tall as his father, but lean. He also had his father's fair hair and complexion. His eyes were his mother's.

He nodded to both of his father's companions and withdrew to the kitchen with the women.

"How old is he now?" Bradstreet asked, when he had gone.

"Seventeen." Gregson replied, considering the empty space where his son had been standing only a moment ago.

"Practically a man." Bradstreet noted, the words drawing an actual smile from the boy's father.

It was getting close to dinner time when the men finally finished their business and Bradstreet stood.

"If we want to make our escape, now's the time." He joked, dispelling some of the mood that had settled over the room with the subject being discussed.

Gregson let himself relax. "What's wrong with my wife's cooking, exactly?" He wanted to know.

Lestrade did not smile, but he did not sigh at the light banter either.

Mrs. Gregson appeared in the doorway as if she had been summoned. "I'd invite you gentlemen to stay for dinner," she said pleasantly, "but I know both your wives."

Bradstreet smiled. "Can't be caught eating another woman's cooking," he said impertinently, but the woman's husband did not notice.

"Where's Toby?" He asked, eyeing his wife suspiciously. Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the question.

"Here," It was Lestrade's daughter who answered the question as she entered the room and crossed over to stand by her father.

Toby stood behind his mother quietly. Olivia's eyes wandered over to his, and they met for only a second before she turned her attention back to her father.

Gregson cleared his throat, and Bradstreet fought to hide a smile as he helped Lestrade up.

Toby joined his father in seeing the two men and young lady to the door. He was quick to offer Olivia her coat; she accepted in with a small smile.

Lestrade stumbled slightly as Bradstreet donned his own coat, and Olivia moved quickly to steady him. Toby moved almost immediately to do the same. His hand brushed against the young lady's sleeve as Lestrade regained his balance, and he blushed.

Out on the street, it was Bradstreet who broke the silence. "Fine young man," he commented.

Lestrade blinked, and for a second Bradstreet wondered if he had really not noticed, but then Olivia ducked her head in an attempt to hide a smile.

"Nothing so far." Lestrade answered wearily as Watson settled down carefully beside him.

"But the attacks have stopped." Watson reminded him gently. Then a thought struck him. "Haven't they?" He asked.

"There have been no new developments." Lestrade agreed, but he did not look pleased as he said it.

He was worried, Watson realized, but about what? Not that the attacks had stopped, surely. "They've only been searching for a day." Watson noted. "It's still a bit early for results, isn't it?"

"Unless she's a fool." Lestrade did not sound as if he believed the woman responsible for all this were such. "London is a big city. Unless we are very lucky, it will take time to find her."

He frowned and fell silent, staring thoughtfully into the fire in the fireplace. Watson let the quiet stretch out for a few minutes before broaching a new subject. "How are you?" He asked.

Lestrade leveled a glare at the doctor; the belligerence in the other man's eyes took Watson by surprise. It was a moment before he made sense of the Inspector's reaction.

_That _was why he was worried. Lestrade was being forced to sit this one out while the other men at the Yard were out searching London for the very person responsible for his current state.

It took Lestrade only a second to catch himself, and his expression smoothed out. "Bradstreet makes a sturdy enough support." He grumbled half-heartedly. "I should be grateful, I suppose.

"Have you tried putting weight on it?" Watson hoped he had not.

"I'm not supposed to try at least until next week." Lestrade reminded him thinly.

"Glad you haven't forgotten." Watson tried to soften the words with a smile.

Lestrade sighed. "Be careful on your way out," he said, "_I _know you're not here on Holmes' behalf, but that doesn't mean everyone else will."

Watson did not reply. Holmes hardly cared that the Yard had occasionally taken credit for cases he had solved. Holmes did not always inform _his_ clients when the Yard had been instrumental in solving his cases. The public may not have understood the tradeoff, but Watson had learned to accept it years ago.

Holmes was still willing to help. All it would take was a word from Lestrade, and Holmes would start looking for this woman, and discretely. Holmes knew how to avoid notice.

Was it pride, Watson wondered, that kept the Yard from asking? Did they feel, with everything that had come out to the public, that they had to prove themselves?

"How bad was Bradstreet's arm?" Lestrade wanted to know.

Watson shook his head to clear his thoughts. "He didn't say?" He asked instead of answering immediately.

"Bradstreet's idea of a minor injury tends to run contrary to reality." Lestrade admitted.

Watson raised an eyebrow in imitation of the other man. "He's not the only one." He pointed out. Smiling, he added, "That seems to be a requirement for joining Scotland Yard." Lestrade did not quite laugh at that.

"It was a bad enough cut," Watson said, "but Bradstreet is tough." He waited for perhaps a second before continuing. "He's also good about taking care of himself when he's injured."

Lestrade ignored what could have been taken as yet another jab at his own health practices. "You met Robert, then." He commented instead.

Both Watson's eyebrows lifted. "Bob Bradstreet is a large man." He replied decisively. "He also makes you appear talkative by comparison." He teased.

Lestrade grunted, and Watson almost laughed outright.

The silence again stretched out between them, growing until at last it became a thing that it seemed should not be broken.

"Holmes could help." Watson finally said, though it came out in almost a whisper, so great had the silence become.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "I know it." He said, and for a long time did not say anything else.

Watson was still, content to wait for Lestrade to make whatever decision he was struggling with.

Lestrade made his decision at last, and his hand went to his jacket pocket. When he withdrew it again he held an envelope, which he offered to Watson.

"It's a description of the woman we think is responsible." He said.

"The woman," Watson echoed, surprised.

"There was a woman in Gregson's office the day someone left a corpse on the front step of Scotland Yard." Lestrade explained. "She left before he saw her-later he found a note on his desk. We think she left it."

"A note?" Watson asked, and found himself wondering what else he had missed.

"It said _Prove yourself_." Lestrade replied. "Bradstreet described his attacker as being small and thin-my attacker, while tall for a woman, would still have been small for a man."

"You said your assailant slapped you." Watson remembered. "That's not a common behavior for a man."

Lestrade considered this. "Bradstreet was attacked because he went to Holmes for help-or somebody thought he did. Gregson thinks that consulting him will put the two of you in danger."

"He doesn't want us involved." _That_ was why the Yard had stopped asking for help. "How's he going to react when he realizes you gave me this anyway?" Watson asked, waving the envelope at Lestrade.

Lestrade shrugged. "We need help." He said without embarrassment. "We're looking, but we haven't found her." Lestrade sighed. "Truthfully, we have almost nothing to go on. We've small enough chance of finding her on our own."

Watson considered the envelope for a moment before tucking it away into his jacket pocket. "What happens when Gregson finds out you involved us anyway?" He pressed.

Again, Lestrade shrugged. "He won't be happy about it." He admitted. "He doesn't have to be."

"He's in charge of the case now, though, isn't he?" Watson insisted.

Lestrade actually smiled. "Technically, yes." He agreed.

Watson wondered whether he should pursue the issue. "What does that mean, exactly? Technically?"

"It means Lestrade still considers it _his case_." Holmes answered the question the Inspector had not as he took the envelope from Watson. "And he will do what he feels necessary, whether Gregson approves or not."

Watson considered this. "And what happens when Gregson realizes Lestrade has involved you against his wishes?" He wanted to know.

"Gregson will not be surprised." Holmes said. "He will most likely be angry, but he will not be surprised. He knows Lestrade well enough by now to know that if Lestrade thinks that I can find this woman where Scotland Yard cannot he will ask us to look for her with or without Gregson's approval."

"But if Gregson is in charge of the case now-" Watson pressed.

Holmes waved a hand dismissively. "Your concern for Lestrade is unwarranted. Gregson will be angry, and he will certainly let Lestrade know how he feels about the man going against his decision-as he has done on numerous occasions in the past-that will be as far as it goes." Watson was still not entirely convinced, however, and so Holmes added, "Even if Gregson were so inclined, what more could he do? Bring the matter before the Superintendent?"

Briefly, Watson wondered what poor Hopkins would do if he were ever forced into such an unenviable situation.

Holmes opened the envelope and removed its contents. The paper-and the envelope-was the same as that Bradstreet had used to contact them previously, causing Watson to wonder if Bradstreet did, in fact, sometimes steal Lestrade's stationary.

Not that it really mattered, Watson thought as Holmes quickly read the description penned in Lestrade's tiny, neat handwriting. Holmes offered it to Watson when he had finished, and Watson upon reading it himself he had to agree with Lestrade-it was little enough to go on.

The post-script at the bottom surprised Watson, a little, but also served to emphasize just how dangerous the woman they were looking for truly was.

_If you find her, send for us immediately. Do_ not_, under any circumstances go after her yourself, Holmes._

_Be Careful!_

Watson frowned and offered the letter back to Holmes, trying to figure out what was suddenly bothering him.

It was not the fact that Lestrade was going against Gregson's decision-although that also worried him. There was something else, something about the letter he had just read.

He considered the message at the end. Did Lestrade often tell Holmes to be careful? He rarely bothered telling Holmes not to approach someone they were looking for; Holmes would either go after them himself or send for the police, but Lestrade advising him one way or the other was unlikely to influence Holmes' actions.

It had to be the description itself, Watson decided, but he had absolutely no idea why the description of the woman would leave him feeling so uneasy.

Watson bolted upright in the darkness, his heart racing, staring wide-eyed into the darkness. A second later he was out of bed and scrambling for something to wear. "Holmes!" He shouted as he stumbled across the bedroom and threw open the door.

He knew what had been bothering him.

He recognized the woman in the description Lestrade had given them.

He had seen her before.


	11. Obsession

Holmes was waiting at the bottom of the stairs in his housecoat and slippers. He was awake and alert and ready for a fight, Watson thought. A second later it occurred to him that perhaps his shouting had alarmed Holmes.

It took very little time for Watson to explain who the woman Scotland Yard had described in the letter was, and he was gratified to find that Holmes, once the doctor had finished, agreed.

"What do we do now?" Watson asked. "Go to the Yard? Go to Lestrade?"

Holmes considered the matter. "Lestrade will be at home and, in his current condition, of little use to us." He said quickly. "If Scotland Yard is being watched, and I think it likely, given recent events, that it is, a visit in the dead of night would arouse suspicion. We would be headed straight into danger."

Danger had never stopped either man from pursuing a case.

"Lestrade believes this woman is dangerous enough that he felt he had to warn you to be careful." Watson could not recall Lestrade ever doing so before.

"Dangerous enough to incapacitate Lestrade." Holmes murmured, as if to himself. "She could have killed him, and he knows it." He shook his head. "He also knows it would be the two of us against her."

"And still he warned against going after her ourselves." Watson wondered if Lestrade had overestimated this woman, just a little.

"We will go see Gregson." Holmes decided, and Watson frowned.

"Gregson does not know that Lestrade involved us." He pointed out. "He wanted us left out of it."

Holmes almost laughed. "If Gregson truly believes that Lestrade 'left us out of it', as you say, when Lestrade knew we could help, then he is a fool. Come, Watson!"

* * *

><p>"Tobias," Gregson grunted, and would have rolled over and gone back to sleep, but his wife poked him forcefully in the ribs with a finger that was far sharper and bonier than it looked.<p>

"Tobias!" She hissed at her husband, and he forced himself to open his eyes.

"What?" He growled. Had he been more awake, he would never have gotten away with growling at his wife. The woman would not stand for such a thing.

"There's someone at the door." She declared, then sighed. "Now I know how Elisabeth feels."

Gregson let the realization that his wife had at some point started spending time with Lestrade's wife elude him as he got out of bed. He was not yet awake enough to process more than one thing at a time.

He stumbled across the room and fumbled with the door knob, yawning as he continued down the hall and down the stairs. By the time he got to the door, he was somewhat awake.

He was not prepared to see Sherlock Holmes or John Watson standing on his front step. "Come in," he grunted anyway, stepping backward to let them inside.

He woke up a little more then, enough for alarm to register. "Are you all right? Did something happen?" He demanded. He received an odd look from Watson for his trouble.

"We're fine, Inspector." Holmes said, and Gregson woke up even more.

It was enough.

"I'll kill him!" He fumed. "That stubborn, stupid, half-crippled, rat-faced, son of a French-" He cut himself off abruptly, aware that Watson was staring at him in astonishment while Holmes had fixed him with a look that let him know exactly how stupid he was for expecting Lestrade to go along with him on this particular decision.

He forced himself to calm down. "You found her?" He asked.

"Recognized her." Holmes corrected. "We've seen her before."

"Spoken with her, in fact." Watson added.

"Do you know who she is? Do you know where she is?" Gregson asked, pushing aside the last of his irritation. What was done was done; he would deal with Lestrade later.

Holmes nodded. "She is staying in a hotel here in London." He said. "She gave me the address herself."

"Right," Gregson was fully alert now, his mind working quickly. "Then we can get her tonight; find out who else is involved. Evans and Morton are both on duty tonight, and Jones can get there quickly enough. Thank you, gentlemen." He said dismissively.

Holmes and Watson exchanged a glance. Gregson saw it and interpreted it correctly. "No." He said. "I will not have you two any more involved than you already are. It's bad enough that you came here-"

"If we hadn't, you would still be trying to find her." Holmes pointed out reasonably.

Gregson scowled. "I won't risk something happening to you." He snapped. "Lestrade, Bradstreet, they're policeman. It's all part of the job. You two-"

"I work with Scotland Yard just like you, Gregson." Watson interrupted.

"You work with dead bodies." Gregson said bluntly. "You aren't paid to risk life and limb, and so you won't, not on my watch."

Holmes' eyes narrowed, but he remained silent. There was something in Gregson's voice that said his mind was made up. This conversation was finished.

"Thank you both." Gregson said after a moment's silence. "Now go home."

Holmes sighed and headed for the door. Watson followed.

* * *

><p>A woman stood out in the street. Holmes turned and started to call out, and she raised a finger to her lips in warning. Watson placed a hand on Holmes' shoulder, the hair prickling on the back of his neck.<p>

She was here, and she was not the least bit afraid.

She motioned for the two of them to come closer. Holmes did not call out, but he remained where he was, challenging her. Watson followed Holmes' lead and also stayed where he was.

She took a step closer, close enough for them to see the smile. A chill ran down Watson's spine as she extended her hand; a pistol was held steadily in her grip, and it was aimed toward the Doctor.

"What the devil-?" Holmes had not closed the front door completely, and Gregson had emerged from it. The woman's expression never changed, but her aim switched from Watson to the Inspector immediately.

He froze at the top step, and waited. "Miss Gibson," He greeted her coolly, as collected as if she did not actually have a gun pointed at him. He looked far more alert than he had inside a few minutes ago, however.

The smile disappeared. It was replaced by a sneer. 'You didn't figure that out on your own." The woman accused angrily. "_He_ told you." She all but snarled, nodding toward Holmes.

Gregson shrugged. He did not point out that Watson was actually the one who had identified her. "Holmes, Lestrade, it doesn't really matter who figured it out, as long as you are stopped." He said easily.

"And who will get the credit for it?" She demanded hotly. "You?"

Gregson made a show of considering her question. "I _am_ currently assigned to the case." He offered.

"And so you take advantage of his desire to see justice done, and take all the credit, and use the case that he solved to advance your own career!" The woman was furious; her hand was starting to shake.

Gregson simply shrugged. "It wouldn't be the first time." He admitted. "It won't be the last." He offered her a smile that did not reach his eyes. "And it wouldn't be just Holmes. I've taken a lot of credit that wasn't mine to claim. Is that what all this has been about?" He demanded, suddenly angry. "The fact that people don't always get the appreciation they deserve for their work? That's why you did all this?"

"I gave you a chance to prove yourselves!" The woman shouted. "To prove that you could manage without crawling to him and begging him for help! You couldn't even stop me! Can you solve a single case without his help?"

Watson's mind was reeling as he tried to understand what reason this woman was offering as an excuse for the things she had done.

He started as Gregson laughed. "So you are a lunatic." He said, a taunting smile playing about his lips. "You read his stories and got it into your head that every bit of them was true. And you decided that Scotland Yard was full of incompetent police men who couldn't solve a case without the help of one Sherlock Holmes."

The woman blinked. She looked uncertainly from Gregson to Holmes and back to Gregson. Gregson laughed again. "It burned you up that he solved all those cases and we took all the credit." He guessed. "So you decided to teach us a lesson. Did you kill all those people?" He asked conversationally.

She was confused now; she had not been expecting to be laughed at. She gripped the gun with both hands now, tightly. Her knuckles were beginning to turn white. "They lived on the streets." She spoke slowly. "They were half starved and ill, most of them. They were easy enough. Nobody even missed them.

Gregson stared at her. "Did you think he would thank you for killing them?" He demanded, all amusement gone. He shook his head. "You must be mad."

She shook her head, violently, and raised the gun that had begun to lower as Gregson spoke. Her hands were trembling as she took aim at the Inspector.

"You want a confession?" He demanded, angry again. "Fine. I took credit that did not belong to me for solving cases. I have neglected to mention that many of my cases have in reality been solved by Sherlock Holmes, a few by Inspectors Bradstreet, Jones, and Hopkins, a couple by various Constables whose names I didn't even bother to remember, but mostly by Lestrade. Is that what you wanted?"

"If you're trying to humiliate him," someone drawled as two shadows stepped out of the nearby alley, "we already knew that he was ambitious. And anyway, Gregson was born without a conscience."

Bradstreet stepped into the light, hands in his pockets, Jones silent and menacing behind him. "Maybe you should put the gun down." He suggested as the woman spun around to stare at the two men. "Jones is hoping for a reason. He doesn't care if you're a woman or not."

Jones muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath that Bradstreet ignored. "Game's up." He said cheerfully. "Sure, we cheated." He added with a shrug. "Unfortunately for you, it doesn't really matter. Put the gun down."

She hesitated, and every man tensed as she turned to look at Holmes. "I did it for you." She said, holding out the gun to him. "They don't appreciate you."

Holmes stepped forward and wordlessly took the gun from her. Jones started forward, but Bradstreet laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. Jones leveled a glare at him, but did not pull away.

Gregson stepped forward to arrest the woman.

* * *

><p>"Your lunatic." Lestrade commented.<p>

Gregson nodded distractedly. "Obsessed with Watson's stories. Obsessed with Holmes. She felt we had wronged him and should be held to account for it."

"Some way to go about it." Lestrade scowled. "Killing innocent people for our sins."

Gregson shrugged. "Lunatic." He offered. He turned and fixed Lestrade with a look. "I seem to remember deciding to keep Holmes and Watson out of the line of fire." He said.

"You decided." Lestrade reminded him unnecessarily.

"I don't know why I was surprised." Gregson admitted. "I should be angry." Catching Lestrade's raised eyebrow, he amended his statement. "Angrier. I don't suppose there's any point in telling you how I feel about you ignoring my decisions when that worked so well last time."

Lestrade shrugged. They could have the entire argument over again, or they could just accept that it was a difference that would never be resolved.

The two sat in silence for several seconds, Lestrade staring into the fire, Gregson studying the smaller, dark haired man.

Lestrade looked tired, and it was not simply his injury or this particular nightmare of a case. Gregson left the observation unsaid, however.

"Have you seen the papers lately?" He asked instead.

Lestrade turned to fix Gregson with that dark gaze of his. "No," He said slowly. He waited, though Gregson was sure the man already knew what he was going to say.

"They wrote up the case." He said. Lestrade blinked.

"The Gibson case?" Lestrade asked. Gregson nodded. "You solved the case, of course." He predicted.

Gregson considered the fire before them. "Saved it, actually. In spite of your bumbling around and nearly getting yourself killed by your own incompetence."

"Good for you." Lestrade retorted, but he had not taken offence. He sighed. "It's a little late for me to start worrying about my career." He pointed out. Lestrade would never make it beyond his current ranking at the Yard.

"Does it bother you?" Gregson asked, not bothering to wonder why he cared. There was really no point in trying to make sense of their relationship.

Lestrade shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He said, offering the answer he usually gave. Surprisingly, he added, "I can't imagine being anywhere else."

"You could have been Superintendent." Gregson pointed out. Lestrade should have been Superintendent. He would have been the best choice for the position, really, had it not been for the taint on his records.

Lestrade almost smiled. "I'd rather it be Hopkins." He admitted. "I never got into the job for the promotions."

Gregson considered that piece of information. It did not surprise him in the least. "He does an acceptable job, I suppose." He ventured.

"Better than you would." Lestrade threw at him. Gregson did not disagree.


End file.
